I lie on the cold, damp ground. The clammy moisture seeps into my clothes as if trying to reach my bones, to freeze me from the inside. A dull, throbbing pain spreads through every inch of my body, a heavy wave of agony, as if someone drives red-hot nails under my skin and twists them for pleasure. Even the air around me hums with pain—it pulses, breathing in sync with me.
My head pounds in rhythm with my heartbeat, like drums in some ancient ritual. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth—thick, sticky, vile, like rust on old iron. I try to swallow, but even that simple motion sends a sharp flare of pain through my jaw and throat.
My hands, cuffed behind my back with cold, unrelenting steel, have long gone numb. The skin beneath burns as if the cuffs are made of barbed wire, not metal. Every slight movement sends a sharp, lashing pain through my shoulders—as if they're being twisted inside out. I try to open my eyes, but my right eye feels sealed shut—dried, sticky blood has glued my lashes together into an impenetrable curtain. Behind it, only darkness remains—crimson, pulsing, alien.
My left eye cracks open slightly and catches light—bright, unbearable, stabbing into my pupil like needles, like a thousand tiny blades. I squeeze my eyes shut, but then, through tears and pain, through the red haze, I make out shapes. Blurred, trembling shadows merge into a figure. And then I see her.
Katrin.
She sits on a chair, motionless as a statue, but pale—paler than snow, as if all the blood has drained from her face. Her fingers clutch the armrests desperately, as though they're the only things still anchoring her to this world. Her eyes—wide, full of terror, despair, and tears—stare straight at me. That gaze cuts deeper than any blow.
Her lips tremble slightly, like a child fighting back a scream. And when I shift weakly, a choked, almost-sobbing sound escapes her—so raw, so full of fear and pain that my heart clenches.
I want to shout to her, to say it'll be okay, that I'm here… but my mouth won't obey. All I can do is watch. Watch her, this trembling bundle of fear and love in front of me—and hate myself for my own helplessness.
"Max… Max, can you hear me?"
Her voice quivers like a frayed, wounded string—one more tug, and it'll snap. Every word is laced with fear, pleading, hope trapped between a tear and a silent scream.
I try to push myself up, but my muscles scream in protest, as if someone tears them apart with red-hot tongs. My body betrays me, shaking violently, as if made of glass about to shatter. A wave of dizziness crashes over me, the ground tilting, turning liquid and foreign, like a nightmare I can't wake from. But stubbornness proves stronger than pain. Stronger than fear.
"I'm here, love. I'm here. Shh… Don't cry like that."
The words come out as a rasp—harsh, ragged, as if I've swallowed glass and now have to breathe through it. Every syllable scrapes my throat, echoes in my skull, and Katrin's desperate whispers hammer at my temples.
"Baby… where are we?"
My thoughts are sluggish, thick like honey—but not sweet. Murky, like swamp water. My consciousness drifts in darkness, grasping at fragments before sinking back into the void where there's no beginning or end.
"Ivan took us."
And then—a click. A flash. Sharp as an electric shock. A blow to the head. Her scream. A shadow darting in the dark before it happened. The breath of death against my ear.
"That bastard…"
The curse slips out, hoarse, filled with so much fury that even I'm scared. Helplessness coils into a fist inside my chest—a tight, corrosive knot I can't swallow.
And then—a creak.
Long, drawn-out, like a nail scraping metal. The door opens slowly, with a sound that makes my heart stop. The air itself feels thicker, heavier, pressing down on my chest.
"Talking about me?"
The voice—soft, oily-sweet, like the stench of rotting flesh. It slithers under my skin, crawls into my ears, leaving behind a trail of cold disgust.
"Yeah. Where are we?" I exhale, mustering every shred of will to keep my voice steady.
I lift my head. Slowly. Through the pain, through the ringing in my ears. And I meet his gaze.
Cold. Absolute. Bottomless. There's not a trace of life in his eyes. Only emptiness. As if he's not a man, but something that long ago forgot what it means to be alive.
"An old barn outside the city."
He smiles. Slowly. His face twists into something resembling a grin, but there's nothing human in it—only hunger, only delight in suffering.
From the corner, in the shadows, comes a rustling—a rat. Its claws scrape against the wooden planks, a piercing, jarringly alive sound in this nightmare.
And Katrin shudders. Lightly, almost imperceptibly—like an autumn leaf clinging to a branch in a cold wind. And I want to hold her. Protect her. Shield her. But all I can do is watch. Watch, and hate my helplessness more than the pain itself.
"Don't touch her, or I swear I'll kill you!"
My voice tears through clenched teeth—low, ragged, breaking with pain and fury, carrying an almost animalistic threat. It's not a shout, not a plea—it's the roar of a wounded beast, cornered but still ready to fight. Every cell in my body burns with hatred, but the cuffs, cold and biting into my skin, hold me tighter than chains. My body is battered, broken, but inside, a storm rages.
I'm not afraid for myself. I don't care what he does to me. I'm only afraid for her.
"Don't worry," his voice is like silk dragged across a throat, smooth and deceitful. "I promised I wouldn't hurt her, and I keep my promises."
He speaks so calmly it feels like torture. Like mockery. He savors the moment like a connoisseur savoring the last sip of fine wine. I don't believe him. Not a single word. If he's here, nothing is as it seems.
"Then why is she here? You and I still have unfinished business, don't we?"
I speak deliberately slowly, keeping my voice steady. Inside, everything is trembling, but I can't let him see that. I need to figure out what game this is—and what the rules are.
"I want to watch her suffer."
He smiles—not with his lips, but with his eyes. Predatory. Cold. Like a snake coiling before a strike. His gaze is a scalpel—precise, merciless. I feel something inside me snap.
"There are many ways to make someone suffer," he continues. "But the worst, in my opinion, is when a person watches someone they love get hurt. Isn't that right, Katrin?"
He turns to her, and his shadow falls over her—long, distorted, like the silhouette of a nightmare. The darkness inside the barn thickens. The girl sits curled up, fragile as glass. But there's no fear in her eyes. Only hatred. Pure, icy hatred, burning so fiercely it feels like it could bore a hole through his skull.
He leans in, bringing his face close to hers. So close I can almost feel his rotten breath on my skin.
And then Rebel Girl spits. Right in his face. Loud. Defiant. With all the hatred she's been holding back.
Silence. The barn feels lifeless.
A drop of saliva slowly slides down his cheek, mixing with dirt, sweat, and his bastardly smugness. His face hardens. His eyes narrow. I freeze, holding my breath, waiting for the explosion.
He raises his hand. Slowly. Pulls back. Katrin doesn't flinch. Not even a millimeter.
"Don't touch her!"
I lunge forward with all my strength. The iron cuts into my wrists, my knees buckle treacherously, and I crash to the floor. Pain shoots through my body, but I barely notice—I just grit my teeth in helpless rage.
And Ivan… He laughs. Loud. Thunderous. Dirty, disgusting, like a madman who doesn't care about morals, life, anything. His laughter sounds like the rattle of rusted chains in an empty room. Like the screech of a shattered mind.
He wipes his face with his sleeve, still wheezing with laughter, as if she hadn't insulted him but amused him. That laugh—it crawls into your skull and shreds your eardrums. But beneath it, beneath all that grotesque grinning—I see a crack flicker in his gaze. Katrin left it there. She broke something in him. And I swear I'll finish the job.
"Seems you still don't understand."
His voice is soft, almost tender, like he's speaking to a child. But beneath that false gentleness is ice-cold, ruthless cruelty. He takes a step forward, and the air around us thickens, heavy and suffocating. Every step he takes is slow and measured—like an executioner savoring the inevitable end.
I can't look away. Everything inside me tightens, as if the anticipation of pain is worse than the pain itself. A cold current runs down my spine, making my hair stand on end. My throat constricts—dry as sandpaper, my mouth bitter.
"I won't touch you…"
He smirks—the corners of his lips twitch upward, but it's not a human smile. It's the bared mask of a predator. Something wild flashes in his eyes—not anger, not hatred, but dark, hungry pleasure. A thirst for power. A thirst for pain.
"…but that doesn't mean you won't pay for everything."
Before I realize what he's about to do, his fist slams into my stomach. The impact. Sharp pain erupts, like molten metal exploding inside me. The air is knocked from my lungs in a ragged wheeze. I double over like a ragdoll, the world fracturing into gray, soundless static. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, like a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing inside my skull.
My knees betray me. I collapse, nearly blind, barely avoiding smashing my face on the ground. My palms, scraped raw, slide through dust and grime.
"S-shit…" I rasp, warm, salty blood trickling down my lip. Its taste fills my mouth, mixing with fear, humiliation, and fury.
Katrin jerks. I lift my head—through the haze, I barely make out her silhouette. She struggles toward me, desperate, real… but the chains rattle. A dull, metallic clang—the sound of hope snapping.
"No! Stop!" Her voice isn't a scream but a plea. Thin. Trembling. Soaked in helplessness. Tears glisten in her eyes, reflecting the flickering lamplight like shards of broken glass.
Katrin falls to her knees, powerless, fists clenched so tight her knuckles whiten. I see her fighting to keep her dignity, but the shackles on her ankles are merciless. They allow her only one thing—to witness.
"Put her back…" His voice turns smooth again, almost paternal, but there's something vile beneath it. Slick.
"And hold her so she doesn't fall. We wouldn't want her to get hurt."
I shudder in disgust. His concern isn't concern. It's sadism disguised as politeness. A gentleman's mask hiding a beast.
"Bring me a chair too," he waves lazily, as if this is all just tedious paperwork. "First, we'll talk… before we get down to business."
Ivan settles opposite us—sprawled in his seat like a king on a throne, watching with detached fascination. His gaze studies us like a collector admiring rare, damaged artifacts.
And that gaze… it trembles with pleasure. He savors every emotion, every flinch, every choked gasp from my throat.
"Pick him up."
Rough hands dig into my shoulders, hauling me up like a sack. My muscles scream, my spine protests, my body refuses to obey. I barely stand—the pain in my gut is a throbbing, sticky weight. It drowns out thought.
"Do you know why I'm making you pay?"
He leans in—his eyes terrifyingly calm, but darkness flickers in them. Not anger. No. Curiosity. Cold as a scalpel.
"If the answer is wrong…"
He pauses, letting me feel how thin the line is between words and another blow.
"…I'll hit you again."
His smile widens, twisted, almost unhinged. I know—he isn't just talking. He's waiting. Waiting to turn my pain into his pleasure again.
"Because I didn't let you fuck her that time—instead, I beat the shit out of you."
My words hang in the air like the strike of a gong. Rough. Jagged. Cutting. I feel my pulse hammering in my temples, a war drum. Every word echoes off the walls, tension thickening like smoke after an explosion.
He freezes. His eyes narrow, something dark and feral flashing in them—a mix of humiliation, rage, and hunger for vengeance. He didn't expect me to say it out loud. Didn't expect me to strike not with a fist but with words that still fester in him like an unhealed wound.
"Yes, that's the right answer, but…"
Ivan rises slowly. His movements are precise, like a hunter moving in for the kill. His shadow falls over me like a suffocating blanket. The air grows thick, damp with fear and pain.
"But I'm still going to hit you."
His fist shoots out—fast as lightning, just as relentless. I don't even have time to blink. The punch lands—a dull, wet crunch. Everything tilts. My vision jerks sideways, a flash of white—then the sharp, metallic taste of blood floods my mouth. My head snaps back, but I don't fall—the guards hold me tight, their fingers digging into my shoulders like meat hooks.