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Sometime around what I estimate is morning, I finally drift off. It’s not sleep, exactly. It’s more like my body simply shuts down, forcing me into a few hours of unconsciousness that I can’t resist.

A sound wakes me.

It’s not loud, but it’s enough to pull me out of the darkness. I sit up immediately, my heart pounding, my eyes darting around the room.

Nothing has changed. The light is the same. The furniture is the same. The camera is still watching.

Something is different outside.

I move to the door and press my ear against it. The sounds are clearer now—footsteps, voices, the distant hum of machinery. They’re not random. There’s a rhythm to them, a pattern that suggests structure and purpose.

These aren’t criminals operating in the shadows. These are professionals running an operation.

I pull back from the door and take a breath. My hands are shaking slightly, but I force them to still. Panic won’t help me. Fear won’t help me. The only thing that will help me is information.

I start observing in more detail.

The door is solid, reinforced, probably steel-core beneath whatever material covers it. The lock is electronic, which means there’s a system controlling it somewhere. The camera in the corner is fixed, not rotating, which means it has a limited field of view. If I move to the far corner of the room, I might be able to stay out of its direct line of sight.

The walls are soundproofed—I can barely hear anything when I’m not pressed against the door—which means this room was designed for containment. The air circulation is controlled, coming through a vent near the ceiling that’s too small for me to fit through. The ceiling itself is high, at least ten feet, with no visible panels or access points.

I check every inch of the room. I look for cracks, loose fixtures, anything that might provide an opportunity. Whoever designed this space knew what they were doing. There are no weaknesses.

Over the next few hours, I learn what I can from the limited information available to me. The bedroom is nice enough, with a little en suite that provides blessed privacy. I double=checked for cameras and, thank God, found none.

The guards change shifts at regular intervals—I can hear the door locks clicking when they switch, which means there’s a schedule, a protocol. Meals arrive at consistent times, which means there’s a routine. Everything is organized.

This is not a group of thugs operating out of a warehouse. This is something else entirely.

I knew the Gromovs were involved in something wrong. The money laundering patterns I found in their system were enough to tell me that.

I’m in over my head.

The thought sits in my chest like a stone. I’ve always been good at understanding systems, at seeing the patterns that other people miss. This system is beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. It’s not just complex. It’s designed to keep people like me out. Or, in this case, in.

At some point during the afternoon, I hear footsteps outside my door. They stop, and I brace myself for another visit from Maxim or one of his men.

Instead, the door opens just enough for a tray to be slid inside. The person delivering it doesn’t come into the room.

I approach the tray cautiously. The food smells fine and looks normal, but I have no way of knowing if it’s been tampered with. I eat a few bites anyway—I need to keep my strength up, even if my stomach is churning with anxiety.

When I’m done, I set the tray by the door and retreat to the couch. The camera follows my movement, a silent reminder that I’m being watched.

I try to think about escape. I try to think about who might be looking for me, what resources might be mobilizing on my behalf. Every scenario I imagine ends the same way—with me trapped in this room, in this building, in this situation I can’t control.

I need to be smarter. I need to wait for an opportunity and be ready when it comes.

Waiting is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

***

The guard comes in the early evening.

I hear the lock click, and I’m on my feet before the door is fully open. Two men step inside. One I recognize from the night I was taken, the other a new face. They’re both dressed in dark clothing, both carrying themselves with a controlled stillness that suggests training.

I need to use the bathroom,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to anyone since Maxim left, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.

The first guard looks at me without expression. “You’ll be escorted.”