Chapter Seven - Elena
I run.
The corridor blurs past, fluorescent lights streaking overhead. Behind me, I hear movement—guards shifting position, voices calling out—but no one stops me.
The stairwell door crashes open under my hands. I throw myself down the stairs, taking them two at a time, hand gripping the railing to keep from falling. My borrowed shoes slip on the concrete, too big and clumsy, but I don’t slow down.
Third floor to second. My lungs burn, breath coming in gasps that echo in the enclosed space.
Second to first. I can hear them now, footsteps pounding above and below, coordinated movement closing in from both directions.
The ground floor exit appears ahead. I slam through it, emerging into a service corridor that smells like exhaust and garbage. The loading dock is to my left, side exit to my right.
Right. Toward the street, toward people, toward any chance of—
I burst through the side exit into cold night air. The alley outside is narrow, dark, lined with dumpsters and industrial debris. I run anyway, feet pounding against pavement, cutting through toward the main road where I can see traffic, lights, the promise of witnesses.
Sirens wail behind me. Not police sirens. Internal alarms triggered by my escape, calling every guard in the building to hunt me down.
I shove past a startled man smoking near a doorway, nearly knock over a woman walking her dog. “Sorry, sorry—” The words come out breathless and useless.
The main road is ahead. Twenty meters. Fifteen. I can see pedestrians, late-night foot traffic, a taxi idling at the corner. If I can just reach them, blend in, disappear—
A car pulls up to the curb exactly where I planned to emerge. It’s a black sedan, engine running, passenger door already opening. My escape route. The one I arranged days ago as backup, the driver paid to ask no questions and get me out of Moscow.
I make it to the door. My fingers brush the handle, cold metal against my palm. Hope surges, brief and desperate.
A hand closes around my arm and yanks me back with brutal force.
I stumble, momentum broken, and another hand slams into my ribs. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, pain exploding across my chest. I try to scream but can’t get enough air.
The cloth comes from nowhere, pressed hard over my mouth and nose. Chemical smell, sharp and acrid. I thrash, trying to twist away, but there are multiple hands now—on my arms, my waist, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing.
“No!” The word comes out muffled against the cloth. “No, please—”
My scream cuts off as the world spins violently. I’m being dragged backward, feet scraping uselessly against pavement. My shoe comes off. I try to dig in, try to fight, but they’re too strong and I can’t breathe properly and the chemical smell is making everything fuzzy—
A bag drops over my head, cutting off light completely.
Darkness. Total, disorienting darkness.
Hands grip my shoulders, my arms, forcing me into a vehicle. I’m folded awkwardly into the back seat, body bent at wrong angles. The door slams shut with a sound that feels final.
The engine roars to life immediately.
“Stay still,” a voice says in accented English. Not Aleksandr’s voice. Someone else. “Don’t fight. You’ll only hurt yourself.”
I feel restraints tighten around my wrists—plastic zip ties biting into skin. I try to pull against them, but they don’t give.
The car accelerates, throwing me against the seat. I’m sitting upright now, someone’s hand on my shoulder keeping me in place. The bag over my head smells like canvas and sweat and fear.
“Where—” My voice cracks. “Where are you taking me?”
No one answers.
The drive stretches and fractures, time losing meaning in the darkness. I try to track turns, listen for changes in road texture that might tell me direction. Left turn. Straight for several minutes. Right turn. The sound of tires on smooth pavement gives way to something rougher.
Voices speak around me in Russian. Low, controlled tones. Professional. One man laughs at something, but it doesn’t sound cruel, just casual. Like this is routine. Like kidnapping someone is no different than picking up groceries.
I try to remember breathing techniques, try to calm my racing heart, but panic keeps clawing up my throat. The restraints cut deeper every time I shift. My ribs ache where they hit me. The chemical smell still lingers in my nose, making my head swim.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, I can pay you. Whatever he’s paying, I can—”
“Quiet.” The hand on my shoulder tightens. Not painful, just firm. A warning.
I fall silent.
The car makes a sharp turn, then slows. I hear a mechanical sound—a gate opening? The vehicle descends, the engine noise changing quality, echoing like we’re entering an enclosed space.
Underground. We’re going underground.
Terror spikes fresh and sharp. Underground means no witnesses. Underground means no one will hear me scream.
The car stops. The engine cuts off. Doors open, letting in cooler air that smells like concrete and oil.
Hands grip my arms, hauling me out. My feet touch ground, legs shaky and uncooperative. Someone steadies me, then pushes me forward.
“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.
I shield my eyes, the sudden brightness painful after so long in darkness. When I can finally see properly, I notice a plastic bottle of water sitting by the door. It wasn’t there before. Someone came in while I was sleeping—or passed out?—and left it without waking me.
The realization that they can enter anytime, that I was unconscious and vulnerable, sends fresh terror through me. But the thirst is worse.
I crawl to the bottle, unscrew the cap with shaking hands, and drink half of it in desperate gulps before forcing myself to stop. Save some. Make it last. You don’t know when they’ll bring more.
The light stays on for maybe an hour, then cuts off again. Back to darkness.
The cycle repeats. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Sometimes water appears. Sometimes nothing. I lose count of how many times. Three? Five? Ten?
My body aches from sitting on concrete. My muscles cramp from staying in the same position too long. I try stretching, pacing the small space, but exhaustion keeps pulling me back down.
I scream again, but my voice is weaker now. Raw from previous screaming, from thirst, from fear.
No one comes.
The isolation is its own torture. No human contact. No sound except my own. No way to mark time’s passage. My mind starts playing tricks—I hear footsteps that aren’t there, see shadows moving in the corners that might be hallucinations.
I think about my family. Wonder if they’ve noticed I’m gone yet. If they’re looking for me. If they even care.
Probably not. The bastard daughter, always causing problems, finally got herself into trouble she can’t escape.
I think about Yusuf. He’ll know something is wrong when I don’t check in. But will he know where to look? Will he even know I went to Moscow?
I think about Aleksandr Sharov. About pale blue eyes watching me with that unsettling intensity. About the way he circled me in that conference room, testing, probing, looking for weakness.
He’s doing this deliberately. Breaking me down, stripping away defenses, making me desperate before he even asks questions.
It’s working.
By the time I hear footsteps approaching—real ones this time, not hallucinations—I’m ready to tell him anything. Give him anything. Just to get out of this room, away from the darkness and isolation and cold.
The footsteps are measured, unhurried. Confident. Someone who knows they have all the time in the world.
The lock disengages. The door opens, light spilling in from the corridor.
I scramble to my feet, legs unsteady, and face the doorway. Fear coils tightly in my chest. Whoever is coming isn’t in a rush.
Which means they’re certain I’m not going anywhere. The real interrogation is about to begin.