I should feel violated.
I do feel violated.
But that’s not all I feel, and thenot-allis what’s making me sick.
My body came. Under duress, under restraint, under the hands of a man who was using me for something I still don’t fully understand—my body betrayed me completely. And for onefraction of a second, in the moment before the shame crashed over me, there was something that felt like relief.
Like surrender. Like finally stopping the fight I’d been losing since the first time he touched my face.
I hate that fraction of a second. I hate it more than I hate him.
The amber light glows soft and warm above me. He chose this light. He selected the specific wavelength, the precise intensity. This is not the harsh fluorescent assault he used in the early days. This is mercy made visible.
The Monster is compromised.
And I am compromised too. We are both becoming something wrong.
I close my eyes and let my body process the residual sensations. The orgasm he extracted from me was ripped from my nervous system through sheer overwhelming input. My stomach churns when I remember it.
What kind of creature am I becoming?
Nikolai Petrenko is dead. Buried in an empty box in Moscow while his father pretended to weep. What remains is something simpler. Something that watches the door and counts the seconds and waits for the sound of footsteps in the corridor with an anticipation that makes me want to vomit.
I asked him to leave. I told him I couldn’t look at him. And now I’m sitting here, straining toward the door, desperate for him to come back so I can hate him to his face.
Or worse—so I can stop hating him.
When the footsteps finally come, the relief is physical.
It crashes through me like a drug. My heart rate spikes. My breath catches. My hands clench against the restraints, not in fear but in anticipation.
He’s coming back. He didn’t leave me alone.
The lock disengages. The door opens.
Alexei steps through the threshold and pauses, his pale eyes finding me in the amber glow. He’s carrying a tray again: cleaning solution, fresh bandages, a cloth, a bottle of water.
Maintenance. He’s here to maintain me.
The thought settles into my chest like something wounded. He’s going to touch me again. He’s going to put his hands on my skin and clean the places where he hurt me.
He approaches without speaking. The silence between us has developed its own texture, heavy with things neither of us has acknowledged aloud.
He begins with my thighs, where the electrode pads left faint red marks on the sensitive skin. The cleaning solution is cool against my flesh. His gloved fingers work with practiced efficiency, but I notice the way he’s careful not to apply pressure.
“The shell companies,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is rough from overuse. “Did I give you enough? Or do you need more?”
He doesn’t respond immediately. He finishes cleaning one thigh and moves to the other.
“The intelligence you provided is being verified. If it proves accurate, it will be sufficient for Ivan’s immediate requirements.”
Ivan. The name is a bucket of cold water.
“And if it’s not sufficient?”
“Then additional sessions will be required.”
Additional sessions.The words should terrify me. Instead, I feel something twist in my stomach that might be anticipation.
