Chapter 14 Kiren #3
At some point, the headphones will come off, the door will open, and the darkness will end. When that moment arrives, the first voice he hears will be mine.
The hallway outside the interrogation room remains quiet. Concrete walls absorb most of the sound in this level of the estate, leaving only the low mechanical hum of the monitoring equipment mounted along the corridor.
I pause beside the surveillance screen long enough to confirm the camera feed is active, then turn toward the stairwell that leads back to the main level of the house. Mikel follows without comment, our footsteps fading through the corridor as we leave the door sealed behind us.
By the time we reach the surveillance room upstairs, the monitors already display the live feed from below. The camera shows Sergei Volkov alone in the chair on the other side of the wall. He stirs again.
Even through the silent video feed, the tension in his body remains visible.
His shoulders pull against the restraints while he tests the metal cuffs with slow movements that grow more forceful when they refuse to give.
The hood still covers his head, and the headphones seal him inside complete darkness and silence, leaving him alone with the uncertainty of how long the isolation will last.
The human mind doesn’t tolerate that level of emptiness for long.
At first, it resists, searching for anything familiar to hold onto, but when nothing answers, it begins filling the silence with its own noise.
Memories surface, imagined sounds take shape in the dark, and the rhythm of one’s own thoughts grows louder with every passing minute.
Time behaves strangely in rooms like that, stretching in ways that make minutes hard to measure, while unease slowly grows in the quiet spaces between breaths.
Mikel stands beside the wall monitor in the surveillance room, his arms loosely folded as he watches the feed. His attention moves toward me. “You think he’s starting to understand yet?”
I keep my eyes on the monitor where Volkov continues testing the restraints in the chair. “He already does.”
Volkov’s head turns as if he senses movement somewhere beyond the darkness. The gesture reflects the strain of a man who knows control has slipped from his grasp but refuses to accept it fully.
Men like Volkov rarely confront fear directly.
They build systems that keep consequences at a distance, surrounding themselves with money, intermediaries, and layers of protection that allow them to pretend the violence tied to their decisions does not truly exist. Tonight, those layers have been removed.
I watch the monitor a moment longer while the seconds tick past.
Volkov’s breathing grows deeper. Even without sound, the rise and fall of his chest makes the pattern obvious. His fingers curl slowly against the restraints before loosening again as he adjusts his position in the chair. The room has begun doing its work.
Nearly an hour passes while we watch the feed. When I finally step away from the desk and move toward the door that leads back down to the lower level, Mikel falls in beside me without a word.
The metal handle turns beneath my hand with a quiet click. Inside the interrogation room, the air feels cooler than the hallway. The overhead light remains off, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim lamp mounted in the corner near the camera.
Volkov sits exactly where we left him. The hood still covers his head. The headphones rest firmly against his ears. His head lifts when the door opens. Even without hearing the movement, he senses the change in the air, the subtle pressure that comes when another body enters the room.
I step inside. Mikel follows, closing the door behind us with a quiet metallic sound.
Volkov’s posture tightens immediately. “Who is this?” he demands again, his voice muffled beneath the hood.
No one answers.
I walk slowly around the chair, studying him.
Up close, the man's details become clearer.
His coat is expensive wool, tailored perfectly across the shoulders.
A gold watch sits at his wrist, its polished surface reflecting the dim light.
Even restrained, he carries himself with the stubborn dignity of someone who has spent most of his life believing money makes him untouchable.
That belief is difficult to abandon.
I stop in front of him while Mikel reaches forward and lifts the headphones from Volkov’s ears. Sound returns to the room, and Volkov inhales sharply as the silence breaks, his head turning instinctively toward the faint noise around him.
“Who are you?” he demands again, anger roughening his voice now that he can hear himself speak.
I reach forward and pull the hood away from his head, the fabric sliding upward and clearing his face. For a brief moment, his eyes remain closed while they adjust to the dim light of the room. When they finally open, confusion appears first, followed quickly by recognition.
Men who operate in his world learn to remember certain names and faces. My presence answers every question he’s been forming in the dark.
Volkov studies me for several seconds without speaking. The confidence in his expression fades gradually, replaced by a more cautious calculation as he understands exactly whose room he has been brought into.
“You,” he murmurs.
I pull a chair closer and sit down across from him, resting my forearms against my knees while I watch the realization settle into place.
“Good evening, Sergei.”
The sound of his name in my voice tightens his posture again. He says nothing, then the instinct for negotiation returns.
“If this is about money,” he begins carefully, “we can discuss terms.”
The words come easily to him. Of course they do. Money has solved most of his problems for a very long time.
I study him quietly while he speaks.
“You’ve made a mistake bringing me here,” he continues. “There are people who will notice if I disappear.”
The corner of Mikel’s mouth lifts faintly behind him.
Volkov watches my expression carefully, searching for a reaction. He finds none. The silence lasts long enough that unease begins creeping into his voice.
“You think this will hurt Ivan?” he asks. “Because it won’t. Ivan has other partners.”
Finally, I speak. “Does he?”
Volkov hesitates. That small pause tells me more than the last several sentences.
I step closer and let the silence of the room close around him. “Ivan took someone from me,” I say calmly.
Volkov’s eyes widen briefly as understanding begins to dawn. “The doctor,” he says slowly.
“Yes.”
Volkov exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re chasing the wrong man.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t order the kidnapping,” he insists.
I take a slow step closer, stopping just inside his line of sight.
“No,” I reply. “You financed it.” I hold his gaze.
“Yes.” His mouth tightens. “That’s business.”
A cold resolve takes shape in my chest. I watch him for a moment longer before standing.
Volkov’s eyes follow the movement.
“You’re making a mistake,” he insists again.
I turn toward the door. “Am I?”
He leans forward as far as the restraints allow. “You think removing me changes anything? Ivan will replace me within a week.”
I pause beside the door and glance back at him. “Probably.”
Confusion flashes across his face. “Then what’s the point?”
I study him one last time. “You’re not the point.”
Volkov’s brow tightens. “Then what am I?”
I open the door. Outside, the hallway lights glow softly across the floor. I look back at him once more before stepping out. “You’re the message.”
The door closes behind me.
Inside the interrogation room, Sergei Volkov finally understands that tonight was never about information. It was about fear. And somewhere in the city, Ivan is about to receive it.