Kraft singles melt into a neon-orange puddle across my macaroni as I shovel another forkful into my mouth. The kitchen's fancy overhead lights make the processed cheese glow almost radioactively against the white ceramic bowl. It tastes like childhood and desperation, exactly what I wanted.
Irina towers over me, arms folded across her chest, watching me eat with an expression I can't quite read. Her perfect eyebrows are drawn together, her head tilted slightly to one side.
"You know," she finally says, her Russian accent thicker than usual, "earlier when I said to you, 'is there anything you want for doing such a good job today' and you said 'macaroni and cheese'... this is not what I thought you meant."
I pause mid-chew, suddenly self-conscious. The plastic-y cheese stretches between my fork and my mouth in a thin, unnatural strand.
"I almost felt like you gave me the wrong list for the store," she continues, gesturing at my bowl with one perfectly manicured hand.
My stomach sinks. After today's marathon cam session that apparently broke all her previous records, she'd offered me a reward. I'd blurted out mac and cheese without thinking, it was always my comfort food back home. But from her expression it seems I've made a faux pas.
"Did I fuck up?" I ask, setting down my fork. The food that tasted so good moments ago now feels heavy in my stomach.
Irina sighs and pulls up a chair next to me, her silky hair falling forward as she leans in.
"No, of course not," she says, her voice softening. "I just assumed you'd ask for something... bigger. A fancy restaurant, perhaps. Electronics."
"Oh." I push the noodles around with my fork. "I wasn't really thinking, I guess. This is just what I wanted."
"Clearly," she says, studying the bowl like it's some alien artifact. She reaches over and takes the spoon from me, her fingers brushing against mine. "Let me try it."
I watch as she dips the spoon into the gooey mixture and brings it to her lips. Her face contorts instantly, nose wrinkling and eyes narrowing.
"This isn't very good at all," she declares, setting the spoon down like it's offended her.
I can't help but laugh at her reaction. "It's how my mom made it before she passed. Kraft singles, no milk, no butter. She said butter and milk were a waste when the cheese was already so fatty."
Irina stares at me for a long moment, her gray eyes searching mine. There's something in her expression that almost looks like pity, but she doesn't ask the obvious questions about my mom. I don't push it since it was so long ago, I barely remember her face anymore, just the mac and cheese and the way she'd sing while making it.
She sighs again, this time with resignation. "How about I make you a really nice dinner? Something with actual ingredients? Real cheese, perhaps?"
"I really like this though," I say, taking another bite to prove my point. "It tastes like... I don't know, something familiar."
"Familiar," she repeats, testing the word like it's a foreign concept. "I suppose we all have our comforts."
I nod, my mouth full of processed cheese and overcooked pasta. It's weird how something so small can make me feel a little more normal in this completely abnormal situation.
"In Russia," she says suddenly, "my comfort food was pelmeni. Little dumplings filled with meat. My grandmother would make hundreds at once, freeze them for when I came to visit."
I swallow my bite, surprised by this glimpse into her past. "That sounds good."
"It was," she says, her voice taking on a distant quality. "Nothing I make tastes the same."
For a moment, we sit in silence, me with my radioactive mac and cheese, her with her memories. It's almost nice. Like we're just two people sharing a kitchen table instead of owner and property.
Irina reaches up and gently touches the collar around my neck, her fingers cool against my skin. "How are you handling this while you're up here?"
I give her a small smile. "Honestly? I'm terrified you'll accidentally shock me again. Every time you reach into your pocket, I flinch inside."
Her expression softens, gray eyes showing something that looks almost like remorse. "I'm more careful now. I've adjusted the sensitivity."
Her fingertips linger on the collar, tracing its edge with a contemplative expression. For a long moment, she just stares at it, her eyes distant. Then she places both hands on either side like she might unfasten it, but hesitates and slowly pulls her hands away.
"The collar stays on while you're upstairs," she says quietly, almost regretfully.
"I wasn't asking to take it off," I reply, surprised by her sudden shift in mood.
"I know," she murmurs, still staring at my neck. "I know."
Something about her tone makes me think she's not really talking to me at all, but having some internal debate with herself. The moment stretches between us, strangely intimate despite the control device around my neck.
To break the tension, I clear my throat. "Hey, what country are we in? I've been wondering."
Her eyes snap back to mine, expression hardening. "That's none of your concern."
I nod, accepting the rebuff, but curiosity gets the better of me. "It's not America, right? Because everyone here calls it fútbol, not soccer."
"You are assuredly not in the United States," she confirms, her accent thickening slightly.
"Not Canada either, right?" I venture, pushing my luck.
Irina's eyes narrow. "Stop guessing." Then she blinks, annoyance flashing across her face. "And of course this isn't Canada. You didn't actually think that, did you?"
I shrug, pushing another forkful of mac and cheese around my bowl. "I don't know shit about where I am. For all I know, we could be on the moon."
"It's hot here," she says flatly, as if that's all the geographical information I need.
"You have air conditioning," I point out, gesturing to the vents pumping cool air into the kitchen.
She laughs then, a genuine sound that transforms her face entirely. The severe lines soften, and for a moment, she looks younger, almost carefree. It's startling how beautiful she is when she's not intimidating the hell out of me.
"Keep guessing and I'll turn off the air conditioning," she threatens with a playful smirk.
"I'll shut up, I promise," I say quickly, making a zipping motion across my lips. The last thing I want is to be sitting in sweltering heat on top of everything else.
Her hand slides across the table and covers mine, surprisingly warm against my skin. The touch sends an unexpected tingle up my arm.
"No," she says softly, "I didn't say we should stop talking." Her fingers intertwine with mine in a gesture that feels strangely intimate. "Just stop asking where we are."
I stare at our joined hands, confused by this sudden shift. Yesterday she was inspecting me like livestock, today we're holding hands over mac and cheese. I don't know what to make of it.
"Okay," I manage, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "What should we talk about then?"
She considers this for a moment, head tilted to one side. "Tell me about your life before. What did you study at your community college?"
"Business administration," I admit with a slight grimace. "It wasn't my passion or anything. Just seemed practical, you know? Something that might actually lead to a job."
Irina nods, her thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. "And what was your passion? If money and practicality weren't concerns."
I shrug, feeling a little embarrassed. "I don't really have one. Never did. My big life goal was basically just doing nothing. Sitting around, playing video games, eating junk food. Living the dream, you know?"
Irina laughs again. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she squeezes my hand.
"You Americans," she says, shaking her head with genuine amusement. "Only in your country could 'doing nothing' be considered an aspiration. In Russia, even children have five-year plans."
"Yeah, well, look how that turned out for me," I gesture at the collar around my neck. "I should've aimed higher, I guess."
Irina's smile fades, her eyes growing cold as they study my face. "Is your new goal to escape, Matthew?"
The sudden shift makes my stomach drop. Her hand is still holding mine, but the gentle touch now feels like a trap.
"What? No, I…"
"Do you know what will happen if I catch you trying to run?" She leans closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. The gray in her eyes turns to steel.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I'm just…"
"I will hurt you so badly you'll never forget it," she cuts me off, her face going completely emotionless. It's more terrifying than if she'd screamed at me. "I will make you beg for death."
My heart hammers against my ribs. The mac and cheese sits like lead in my stomach now.
"That's not necessary," I say quickly, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just trying to survive, Irina."
Her expression softens slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting in a small smile. "That's right," she says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.
Then she's standing, moving around the table to where I sit. Her arms wrap around me in a loose hug, her cheek pressing against the top of my head. The gesture is so unexpected I freeze, not knowing how to respond.
"And even if you did escape me," she whispers, her breath warm against my ear, "the monsters out there are far worse than I am. You're lucky, I bought you Matthew."
A chill runs down my spine despite the warmth of her embrace. There's something in her tone, a certainty. I think about Selena, about the guards at the facility, about whatever else might be waiting in a world where men are rare commodities.
"Yes," I manage to say, my voice shaking slightly. "I believe you. Thank you."
She pulls back just enough to look at my face, studying me with those penetrating gray eyes. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her because she nods once, decisively.
"Good," she says, releasing me and returning to her seat. "Now finish your terrible cheese pasta before it gets cold."
I pick up my fork with trembling fingers, forcing myself to take another bite even though my appetite has vanished. The cheese that tasted like comfort minutes ago now feels like plastic in my mouth.