5. Katerina
KATERINA
Over the next few days, I learn how to move through the Volkov estate without drawing too much attention to myself.
It’s easier than I expected.
This ability of slipping between notice and expectation is a skill I’ve had since childhood.
I was raised in rooms full of powerful men who never saw me unless I wanted to be seen.
A politician’s daughter learns early how to exist in spaces without appearing to, to blend in while still projecting the exact image expected of her.
It’s easy for me to let Volkov’s staff believe I’m simply acclimating, adjusting to the scale of the property.
Getting used to the routines, the architecture, the intimidating size of everything.
The sweeping corridors, the echo-filled halls, the ceilings so high, they swallow sound would be overwhelming to anyone in my position.
This estate is large enough to justify almost any amount of wandering.
A woman overwhelmed by luxury is unthreatening, and it’s a stereotype I lean into without shame.
I ask small, polite questions when opportunities arises, mindful to never be too curious, always cushioned with a soft smile or an embarrassed laugh that suggests I’m trying to remember which hallway leads where.
All of them are innocent little things. Nothing that would raise suspicion.
All the while, I watch and absorb everything.
I learn the rhythm of the guards first. I find that they change stations every five hours on the dot, sometimes six if Volkov’s meetings run late. The rotation is not as rigid as I expected, which tells me there’s a degree of trust here and these are men who know how to adapt to the unexpected.
I learn which guards speak in brief exchanges while passing through the hallways and which prefer silence so complete, they might as well be statues.
One in particular avoids eye contact entirely, keeping his gaze trained somewhere two feet to my left whenever we cross paths.
Another nods politely, carrying the aura of someone who takes every kindness as a trap.
Certain doors require biometric access, their fingerprint scanners that glow faintly blue against the cold steel panels set seamlessly into the walls. Others rely on physical keys carried by senior staff in discreet, flat pouches at their belts.
I note who carries them, who uses them. I note the invisible boundaries and areas where staff are able to walk freely and the thresholds they never cross unless summoned.
The subtle shifts in posture when someone is near Volkov’s private wing.
The softened footsteps in the evenings when meetings tend to end and the ambience of the estate shifts into something much more territorial.
I note the cameras, too.
They sit high in the shadows like silent witnesses, black glass eyes mounted against stone.
Some track movement, some don’t. Some follow me only when I pass beneath them.
And slowly, methodically, I begin assembling a mental map.
One disguised as acclimation wrapped neatly in the guise of innocence.
I know this place, for as fortified as it is, has blind spots.
Every empire has them.
Even this one.
Men like Aleksandr Volkov build their kingdoms with control forged into every stone of their domains, but even the most fortified environments forget one thing. You can’t control everything. There will always be cracks beneath the surface.
Every night after dinner, I retreat to my room and lock the door behind me. The soft click of the lock has become a kind of comfort these days. It’s the closest thing I have to privacy in this labyrinth of cameras and watchful eyes. The sound settles over me like a thin, fragile shield.
When I’m alone and I’m certain the hallway beyond my door has gone silent except for the hum of distant ventilation, I retrieve the burner phone from the lining of my travel bag.
The seam is nearly invisible even if you’re looking for it.
I slit it open myself the night before I left home, reinforcing it with tiny stitches pulled so tightly, no one would find them unless they knew where to look.
The device I pull free is small and ugly, the kind of phone tourists buy in airport kiosks and criminals use between safe houses.
Plastic casing, no fingerprint sensor, no cloud backup.
Perfect for a single two-way communication network.
I power it on and wait as the screen flickers to life. The faint white glow illuminates the room in a soft, eerie wash that makes the shadows in the corners of my room look more pronounced. It reminds me how large this bedroom is, how empty it is despite the luxurious pieces furnishing it.
When the home screen finally appears, I open a new message and begin to type every single detail I’ve observed today.
From security rotations to where routes overlap when guards change shifts, I note them all.
I list names overheard in passing, whispered too quickly as clients arrive under heavy escort.
I describe the subtle and unspoken hierarchies within these walls and the patterns of those who approach Volkov directly.
Micro-expressions.
Power dynamics.
Little things that seem otherwise innocuous, I note them all in excruciating detail.
I remove every trace of emotion from my report.
This isn’t the place for fear or impressions or biases.
My father doesn’t need to know how often Volkov’s presence makes the room around me feel smaller whenever he enters it, or how loudly my heart beats when he addresses me directly.
None of that matters with a mission like this one.
Once I finish writing, I read the message over and over until my eyes begin to blur. When I’m satisfied, I hit send and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Strangely, though, and perhaps a little unsettlingly, I never hear back from my father.
It’s been nearly two weeks since I arrived here.
Two weeks of covert reports and strictly cataloguing details of each operation I’ve managed to uncover with not even a single response acknowledging the receipt of them.
I try not to let it get to me.
My father is a careful man by nature, always has been. He would never risk sending unnecessary replies that could expose me if he thought they would. He wouldn’t jeopardize an operation or my safety by offering comfort when silence is safer.
That’s what I tell myself as I sit there staring at the dim glow of the burner phone’s screen, waiting for a reply that never comes, hoping that tonight will be different.
After an hour, I power the phone down and slide it back into its hidden seam. With every passing night as I slip the burner back into its hiding place, the silence begins to feel less like strategy and more like a distance growing wider between us that I did not anticipate.
I force myself not to spiral, not to chase these possibilities into dark corners of my mind where fear starts to nest and take root before I can stop it. My training, my discipline, and my upbringing have taught me better than that.
This mission demands my composure, no matter what.
All I can do now is continue what I’ve been sent here to do and have faith my father is following through with his own assignment on the outside.
The next time I run into Aleksandr Volkov happens late one evening.
It’s my own fault, really.
Not because he ever gave me a curfew. Aleksandr doesn’t operate like that.
As far as I can tell, he’s not interested in playing warden to the people who live under his roof, staff or otherwise, no matter how pointedly he’d barked out his rules the first day we met.
He simply sets expectations in a way that makes it abundantly clear that deviation will be noticed and dealt with accordingly.
So, while he never explicitly confined me to my wing after dark, it has been implied since day one that I’m to return to it anyway. It’s one of the many unspoken rules I’ve decided to ignore outright.
I move carefully through the west corridor and down to the main floor, the marble cool beneath my bare feet.
The temperature difference sends a quiet shiver up my spine.
I hadn’t intended to come barefoot, but I’ve noticed how much rubber soles echo on this kind of flooring.
Silence, at this stage, is more important than comfort.
As soon as I get to the main floor, I take an immediate left.
This hallway is rarely used at this hour, a fact I confirmed several nights ago.
I even wrote it in my report and asked my father whether he thought it was time to start gathering physical intelligence in the form of voice recording and pictures.
But as usual, there was no reply.
I’d told myself that his silence meant trust. He believed I was capable of making the call myself as he’d stated multiple times the day I’d left our family home to be taken here. If he felt something like this was dangerous or ill-timed, he would have found a way to warn me.
So here I am.
The hallway stretches ahead like a dimly lit tunnel, broken only by a single sliver of light spilling out from beneath a door at the far end of it.
That warm golden stripe is my beacon. My target, rather.
When I reach it, I slow and strain to listen.
It’s hard to hear through the thick door, but with how quiet this part of the estate has gotten, voices whisper from underneath the slight crack under the door.
They don’t sound angry, but they do sound serious.
Whatever is being discussed, it’s not the kind of idle conversation I hear at the dining room during breakfast when lieutenants share a joke or compare notes about routine business operations when they forget I’m there. This sounds like more than just business.
I move closer to the door, careful to keep to the darkest edges of the hallway where security cameras won’t pick up on me so easily. My heart thuds against my ribs, not out of fear but with a razor-sharp awareness that I am crossing a line tonight.