“Walk,” the voice commands.
I walk because there’s no other choice. Hands guide me, steering me through what feels like a corridor based on the echo of footsteps. We turn once, twice. Descend stairs—I count thirteen steps before we reach level ground again.
The bag is yanked off my head briefly. I blink against sudden light—not bright, just harsh fluorescents in a concrete corridor. Gray walls, no windows, institutional doors with heavy locks.
Then the bag drops back over my head before I can process more.
More walking. More turns. I lose track of direction completely. Finally, we stop. I hear a door unlock, the creak of hinges.
I’m pushed inside. Stumble forward, catching myself before I fall. The zip ties around my wrists are cut suddenly,plastic snapping. Blood rushes back into my hands, painful and tingling.
The door slams shut behind me. A lock engages with a heavy click.
I tear the bag off my head.
The room is small, maybe three meters by four. Concrete walls on all sides, no windows, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. The light is off, leaving me in near-total darkness except for a thin line of light under the door.
There’s nothing in the room except a metal chair bolted to the floor in the center.
No bed. No toilet. No water. Nothing.
I press my back against the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the cold concrete floor. My whole body is shaking: shock, fear, adrenaline crash. I wrap my arms around my knees and try to breathe.
This is real. This is happening. I’m in a Bratva holding cell, underground, with no one knowing where I am.
The reality of it crashes over me in waves. I broke into Aleksandr Sharov’s facility. I stole his data. I challenged him, defied him, made myself his enemy.
Now I’m paying for it.
***
Time stops meaning anything in the dark.
I don’t know if it’s been hours or days. The light under the door never changes. No one comes. No sounds penetrate the concrete walls except my own breathing, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I scream once. Twice. Beat my fists against the door until my hands ache and my throat is raw.
No one responds.
Eventually, I stop. Save my strength. Curl back up in the corner and try to think.
The drive is still in my pocket. I check compulsively, fingers finding the small rectangular shape hidden in the seam I sewed into the uniform. They didn’t search me. Or they searched me and missed it. Either way, I still have the evidence.
For whatever that’s worth now.
Thirst becomes the first real problem. My mouth is dry, tongue thick and sticky. I don’t know how long a person can survive without water. Three days? Four? The number floats in my memory from some long-ago biology class, but panic makes it hard to remember.
What if they just leave me here? What if this is how it ends—not violence, just slow death by neglect?
I bang on the door again. “Hello? Anyone? Please, I need water!”
Silence.
I sink back down, trying to conserve energy. Trying not to think about how thirsty I am, how my body aches, how cold the concrete feels against my skin.
The darkness presses in. Without visual reference, my sense of time fractures completely. I could have been here for six hours or sixteen. I try counting seconds, making marks on the wall with my fingernail, but I lose track within minutes.
At some point—I don’t know when—the overhead light flicks on.
