Chapter 6 Forced Proximity
Leonidas Volkov's final words—“I am the only law”—landed like a hammer blow, crushing the last remnants of the world Amara knew. The office, which had seemed vast before, now felt suffocatingly small. The glass wall behind him, with the free city sprawling below, was a cruel mockery.
He moved away from her, returning to his desk. A dismissal. He didn't even need to look at her anymore. She was no longer a threat—she was an object to be managed.
The office door opened, and Amara jumped, her heart pounding wildly in her throat.
Marius stood there. The consigliere. His face was a mask of professional efficiency. He didn't look at Leonidas. He looked at Amara.
“Come,” he said. His voice wasn't cruel. It was worse. It was devoid of any emotion. It was the tone someone would use to call a dog or give commands to a machine.
Amara didn't move. Her feet seemed nailed to the wooden floor. Moving meant accepting. Moving meant surrendering to this impossible new reality.
Marius paused. He didn't sigh. He showed no impatience. He simply waited, his calm presence more threatening than any shout. The silence spoke: The time you take doesn't matter. The outcome will be the same.
Leonidas spoke without turning around. “Move, Amara. Or Marius will move you.”
The threat of being touched by that man, of being dragged like a piece of luggage, was enough. Amara unlocked her knees. The trembling in her legs was so violent she feared she might fall.
She took one step, then another. Each step away from the window, away from Leonidas's desk, and toward the man who was her jailer felt like a betrayal of herself.
She passed Marius at the door. He didn't touch her. He simply turned and began walking down the silent, luxurious corridor, his expensive shoes barely making a sound on the thick carpet. She followed him. She had no other choice.
The walk was terrifying. The silence of the Bastion was a living thing. There was no hum of air conditioning, no distant conversations. Just the soft sound of Marius's footsteps and the miserable shuffle of her own rubber-soled shoes.
They seemed to walk for an eternity, through wood-paneled corridors that looked exactly like the others. A labyrinth of luxury designed to disorient.
Finally, they stopped. It was the private elevator she'd seen Marius use before. The wood panel was closed, looking like just another part of the wall.
Marius placed his hand on a biometric reader Amara hadn't noticed. The panel hissed and slid aside, revealing the brushed steel doors of the elevator. They opened immediately.
The interior was lined with dark smoked glass. Marius gestured for her to enter.
Amara stepped inside. The space was small, claustrophobic. Marius entered behind her. The doors closed, trapping her with him. He pressed a single button on the panel—a button marked with a pentagram, or perhaps a stylized crown; she couldn't tell.
The elevator ascended. There was no jolt. Just a smooth, silent upward movement.
Amara watched Marius's distorted reflection in the dark glass. He stared ahead, perfectly still. He wasn't armed—at least not visibly. He didn't need to be. His authority was absolute.
The elevator stopped. The sound was almost imperceptible.
The doors opened.
The breath was stolen from her lungs.
It wasn't a corridor. It was the sky.
The elevator opened directly into a vast open space. Three of the walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. It was ten o'clock at night, and the city stretched below them like an infinite ocean of lights.
She was at the top of the world. And she had never felt so trapped.
The penthouse was gigantic, a cavernous hall of polished white marble and stainless steel. The furniture was sparse, ultra-modern—low white sofas that looked uncomfortable, glass coffee tables that resembled blades. There were no photos. There were no books. There was no clutter.
It was the coldest, most impersonal home she had ever seen. An empty art gallery. A mausoleum with a view.
“Wait here,” Marius ordered.
He exited the elevator and walked to a panel on the wall, typing in a code. Amara remained on the threshold, afraid to step onto the white marble.
The elevator behind her hissed, and the doors began to close.
Panic hit her. “No!”
She threw herself forward, escaping the metal box just in time. The doors closed behind her with a final click. She was locked in.
Marius watched her, his expression unchanged. He gave a slight nod, as if confirming something to himself, then moved toward the elevator they had arrived in. He used his access again, and the doors opened for him.
“Where… where are you going?” Her voice was a thread. “What am I supposed to do?”
Marius stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “He will give you the rules.”
He entered the elevator. The doors closed, leaving her completely alone in the vast, silent hall.
Amara stood motionless for a full minute, her heart pounding against her ribs. The only sound was the low hum of the city far below. She walked toward the glass wall as if in a trance.
The city was beautiful. Car lights moving like blood through the arteries of the streets. Buildings glowing. She could see the river, a ribbon of darkness. The normal world. The world where people went home, ordered food, watched television. The world she had lost.
The hiss of the elevator made her jump.
She turned, her body tense with fear.
The doors opened.
Leonidas Volkov stepped out.
He’d shed his suit jacket. Now he wore only the white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled just below his elbows, revealing strong forearms and an expensive, understated watch. He looked less like an executive and more like a predator in his own territory.
He didn’t look at the view. He walked to a black onyx bar built into the wall, picked up a heavy glass, and poured himself some whiskey. He did all this without saying a word, as if she weren’t there.
He turned, leaning against the bar, and finally looked at her. He took a sip of his drink.
“Welcome to your new home,” he said. His voice dripped with irony.
Amara didn’t respond. She was trembling—a mixture of cold, fear, and helpless rage.
Leonidas watched her tremble with clinical interest. “There are rules. You seem intelligent. I suggest you follow them.”
He took a step toward the center of the room.
“Rule number one: You don’t leave this apartment. The elevator doors only open with my fingerprint. The service stairs are locked from this side.”
He pointed to the windows. “Don’t bother trying to break them. They’re bulletproof. You’ll only break your hand.”
“Rule number two,” he continued, walking slowly toward her. “No contact with the outside world. Your cell phone, if you have one, is a useless brick up here. The house phones”—he gestured to a sleek device on a side table—“only make internal calls, to me or to Marius.”
“Rule number three: You will be watched. There are cameras.” He pointed to discreet spots on the ceiling she hadn’t noticed. “Not in your bedroom or bathroom. I’m a jailer, Amara, not a pervert. But anywhere else, assume I’m watching.”
He stopped a few feet from her. His closeness felt suffocating.
“And the final rule,” he said, his voice dropping. He pointed to a dark hallway on the left. “My quarters are there. You never, ever, go in.” He pointed to a similar hallway on the right. “Your room is there. Food will be brought. Don’t cross my boundaries.”
Her denial finally cracked. The reality was too heavy.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No. This is… this is insane. You’re insane.”
The “Innocent Girl,” the art curator, the desperate sister—a wave of claustrophobic panic suddenly seized her.
“No!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the vast space.
She ran.
She didn’t know where she was going. She just ran. She ran back to the elevator, pounding her fists against the steel doors. “Let me out! Let me out!”
The metal was cold and impassive. There was no call button.
She turned, gasping, and saw the service stairwell doors. She ran to them, grabbed the heavy handle, and pulled.
Locked. Solid as the wall.
She looked around, frantic. The phone. He said it didn’t call out. He could be lying.
She ran to the side table, grabbed the heavy handset, and brought it to her ear.
Silence.
A dead, digital silence. Not even a dial tone.
She threw the phone to the floor. It hit the marble with a dull thud but didn’t break.
The windows.
She ran to the glass wall, panic giving her strength she didn’t know she had. The city mocked her. She slammed her hand against the glass.
The dull impact did nothing. Just sent a sharp pain through her wrist. The glass didn’t even vibrate.
She hit it again. And again.
“No… no… no…”
She slid down the glass wall, her legs giving out, until she sat crumpled on the cold marble floor. She hugged her knees, gasping, the tears finally coming. Hot tears of panic and helplessness. She was in a cage in the sky.
She heard slow footsteps on the marble.
She looked up.
Leonidas Volkov stood above her, whiskey glass in hand. He watched her with the same calm, terrifying amusement as before. He’d observed her panic attack, her futile attempt at escape, like a scientist watching a rat in a maze.
He took another sip of his drink.
“Don’t wear yourself out, Amara,” he said, his calm voice cutting through the silence. “No one can hear you up here.”
He turned and walked toward his private corridor. “Rest. You look exhausted.”