14. Well, Well, Well… #2
I hit redial on Pavel’s number immediately, but it dropped straight to a recorded operator message.
I scrambled up so fast my book tumbled onto the floor.
Think.
I had to tell Zhenya. But if I told Zhenya, he’d bring a full tactical security team—and the voice on the video had made it terrifyingly clear what would happen the second they were spotted.
I grabbed my coat and keys, then froze halfway across the room.
Lev was right upstairs. I could tell Lev.
I took three steps toward the staircase, then stopped again. If Lev knew, he’d contact Zhenya within seconds. Zhenya would lock the building down and never let me step foot outside. And Pavel…
I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a shaky, ragged breath.
Just get Pavel back first. Then tell Zhenya everything.
That had to be the plan. It was the only way.
I checked my phone one last time. The unknown sender had dropped a single pin—no text, just coordinates.
I shoved the phone into my pocket, took one long, grounding breath, and headed silently for the front door.
The first thing I noticed when I got there was that it looked nothing like the room from the video.
I frowned, taking in the structure. It was completely abandoned—windows boarded up long ago, no lights, no voices, nothing. A sudden chill settled over me. Had they moved him?
I checked my phone again. The coordinates matched down to the exact pin.
Maybe Pavel was being kept downstairs, or deeper inside.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat and shoved the rusted metal door open. It groaned loudly on its hinges, and a stench hit me instantly—stale, heavy alcohol. It smelled as if dozens of bottles had been smashed and left to soak into the raw concrete.
I instinctively pulled my collar over my nose.
“…Pavel?”
My voice bounced off the walls, swallowing itself in the darkness almost immediately. No answer.
I took a few steps inside, and behind me, the heavy door slammed shut.
I spun around and grabbed the handle. It wouldn’t budge. My pulse spiked.
“No…”
I yanked harder, but metal scraped harshly against metal from the outside. A lock sliding into place.
“Pavel!”
Silence. And then—footsteps.
Slow, deliberate, and entirely unhurried, echoing through the dark space toward me.
I took two steps back into the shadows. “Who’s there?”
The footsteps stopped. The sharp scritch of a match cut through the quiet, and a tiny flame sputtered to life. It barely cast enough light to illuminate a hand, then a face.
Mikhail Romanov offered a cold smile.
“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”
My stomach dropped into a abyss. “…Where is Pavel?”
His smile only widened. “You came all this way, and that’s your first question?”
“Where is he?”
“Oh.” Mikhail tilted his head, his tone entirely offhand. “He’s fine. He was never really my concern anyway.”
Confusion tangled with the panic rising in my chest. “What?”
“Did you honestly believe I’d go to all this trouble for Pavel?” He let out a low chuckle. “No, Nikolai. I just needed someone you’d actually risk your life for.”
The match burned down to his fingertips, and he dropped it, plunging us back into darkness.
Then came a series of metallic clicks. One by one, low-wattage industrial lights flickered on overhead—not enough to properly illuminate the space, just enough to reveal that I was completely locked in, and entirely alone with him.
“…You don’t remember killing him.”
My head snapped up. “…What?”
Mikhail smiled. “I said you don’t remember killing your father.”
“Shut up.”
“You remember everything else, though, don’t you?” Mikhail took a slow step forward. “You remember Prague. The apartment. The bruises. Your mother.”
His voice was turning into a distant, muffled hum.
“You remember the blood—”
“I said shut up.”
“—but the one thing your mind refuses to touch…” Mikhail tapped the side of his temple. “…is how he died.”
“No.”
Mikhail flipped open the brown file, his eyes scanning the page with mock curiosity.
“According to your psychiatrist: ‘Patient retains vivid recollection of prolonged childhood abuse but presents complete dissociative amnesia regarding the death of his father.’” He snapped the folder shut. “Fascinating, really.”
My chest caved in. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t?”
Mikhail kicked an empty bottle off a low ledge. It shattered against the concrete, the sharp crack ricocheting through the space. Something inside me lurched. Then he kicked another. And another.
The stench of stale alcohol thickened until the air felt heavy enough to choke on.
No… No, not again…
Mikhail’s voice cut through the high-pitched ringing in my ears. “Tell me, Nikolai. What happened after your mother was attacked?”
“I…”
“You bought her a gift, didn’t you?”
My throat locked up.
“You walked home,” Mikhail pressed, his voice dropping. “You heard the bottle breaking.”
The edges of my vision blurred into black. “…Stop.”
“What happened next?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
“I DON’T KNOW!”
The warehouse vanished.
* * *
Mother’s Day.
I had kept the small velvet box tucked safely in my backpack all morning.
The earrings weren’t expensive—they couldn’t be.
I had saved Babushka’s snack money for nearly a month just to buy them.
Mama loved little silver things. She always smiled when she wore them, and I just wanted to see her smile again.
I reached the gate. Then—a bottle smashed.
I froze. Another crash. Shouting. Mama.
I ran.
I remember dropping my school bag on the gravel. I remember fumbling with the front door handle. I remember—
Blood. So much blood.
Mama was on the floor. Her face… her beautiful face…
Father towered over her, the jagged neck of a broken bottle clutched in his fist, dark red dripping onto his knuckles.
“Mama…”
She looked up at me, trying to force a smile.
Then Father turned around. His bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. “You.” He let out a wet, slurred laugh. “So the little coward finally came home.”
He stumbled toward me, reeking of cheap vodka before he even reached the threshold. He raised the broken glass. “Today… I finish both of you.”
No… No…
I remembered this. My feet glued to the floorboards. My heart hammering against my ribs. Mama screaming my name.
And then—nothing. Always nothing. The memory hit a brick wall, just like it always did.
“No…” I gasped, back in the dark warehouse. “I can’t…”
“You can,” Mikhail insisted. “Remember.”
“I DON’T WANT TO!”
Another bottle shattered nearby. The sound vibrated straight through my skull, and then… something shifted. Not outside of me. Inside.
A deadpan drawl echoed above the noise.
You’re making too much noise.
My breathing stopped completely. No. Not right now.
Move aside, the voice commanded.
No…
You’ve cried enough. I’ll handle him.
Something inside my head snapped in half.
The darkness folded in on itself, and another piece of the memory forced its way into the light.
Father wasn’t laughing anymore. He was backing away.
His eyes were wide, wild with a sudden, suffocating terror—and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at whoever was standing where I used to be.
A cold, unfamiliar smile cut across my face.
Father swung the broken bottle, but it never landed.
Hands—fast, precise, brutal. A guttural scream. Glass splintering. Blood spraying across the wall. His blood. Not Mama’s.
Again. And again. And again.
Until the room went dead silent.
I looked down at my hands. They were soaked in dark red.
Mama crawled across the floor, her hands trembling violently as she cupped my face. “Nikolai.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Nikolai, look at me.” Tears tracked through the blood on her cheeks. “You protected me.”
I shook my head, but she held me firm.
“You protected me,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “If anyone asks… it was self-defense. Do you hear me? You can never tell anyone. You can never remember this. Promise me. Promise me.”
The warehouse slammed back into reality.
I dropped to my knees, my hands planted on the cold, gritty concrete. My chest heaved, taking in short, painful gasps of air as my body shook violently.
Across the room, Mikhail had stopped smiling. He was watching and recording me, waiting for the broken boy to fall apart entirely.
Then, a soft laugh drifted through the space.
It didn’t sound like Nikolai. The laugh was lower, smoother, laced with a dark, dangerous amusement.
Slowly, his head lifted.
Mikhail thought he had cornered a terrified boy.
He had no idea he’d just let the monster out of its cage.