"Why now?! We still have twelve days left, you bastard! You said it yourself!"
Katrin's voice cuts through the air. It trembles, like fragile porcelain in an executioner's hands. But beneath that tremor, there's a steel core—rage ready to erupt. I know that voice. She's not begging—she's challenging.
My brave, foolish girl…
But I also know this: he won't stop. Not for her words, not for her tears. He's gone too far—drowned in his own madness and sadism.
"I run out of things to do, so I decide not to wait anymore."
Again, that smirk. No, not a laugh—a grating, hoarse, filthy sound, like rusty knives scraping against the soul's glass.
"Besides, this is way more fun."
Fun.
His sense of the world is twisted. To him, fun is screams, tears, pushing lives to their limits. He doesn't just play with us—he lives for it.
"You all get so comfortable, thinking you won't see me for a while… and here I am."
Ivan steps toward Katrin. Slowly, like a serpent closing in on prey. His fingers reach for her cheek—almost tender, almost gentle. I nearly lunge forward—every fiber of my being screams, rebels. But I'm helpless.
Katrin doesn't flinch. She stands like a rock in a storm. Only her eyes flash lightning.
"Spit at me again, and he won't leave here alive."
His voice is calm. Soft, almost lazy. But his words ring like a hammer's strike. Not a threat—a promise.
"Look at you… Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when your face reflects so much suffering?"
Her lips twitch but stay sealed. Not a word. Not a breath. Her gaze burns with such cold resolve that even he seems to feel it. She won't give him the pleasure of seeing fear.
"Not talking? Fine. I'll chat with your boyfriend instead."
He starts to turn toward me when—
"No."
The word cracks like a gunshot.
Katrin lifts her head, and I see it in her eyes—fire. Not pleading, not terror. A plan. She's plotting something. Something desperate. Something that could end very, very badly.
"I want to talk to you. Alone."
Silence. The world freezes. My heart hammers wildly, pounding against my ribs like a battering ram. Cold sweat trickles down my back.
What is she thinking?... I know that look. She's about to take a risk. For me. For us. And I hate it.
"Don't play games with me, idiot. Speak now or get out of my way."
His voice slices through the silence like a scalding blade through flesh. Not a drop of patience—just irritation, venomous as poison. He hates when things derail his script—especially from a woman. Especially her.
His fingers curl into fists, tendons straining like cables. Tension coils in him—a predator ready to strike. He's barely holding back from hitting her right now.
"I'll make the same offer again."
Katrin. Calm. Unmoving. Carved from ice. Only her eyes—alive, blazing with unyielding fire.
"I'll give myself to you… but leave him alone."
Her words are quiet, nearly a whisper, but they ring with steel. No hysteria. No begging. Just calculation. Just defiance.
A pause. The world holds its breath. Only the roar in my ears and my frantic heartbeat. Then—a new wave of cold.
"Want me to do it right in front of him?"
God…
My body locks up. Ice spears through my chest, like my heart is ripped out and clenched in a frozen fist. I bite my cheek until I taste blood, just to stay silent. My jaw clenches, pulse throbbing in my temples. One sound—and he'll accept her terms.
And I'm powerless. Completely.
"What do you think about that?"
Ivan turns to me, eyes gleaming with delight. Like a child who breaks someone's toy and waits for the reaction. His lips twist into a smirk—ugly, smug.
"Wanna trade places?"
I lift my head. Slowly. Through the pain, the fog in my vision, the blood on my tongue. Every centimeter of movement sends fresh agony, but I refuse to fall.
"Don't see the point."
My voice is rough, like dragged over rusted metal. But there's no fear. Only cold contempt.
"Why not?"
He leans closer, and I smell his breath—menthol, sickly sweet, mixed with cheap tobacco and sour alcohol. He reeks like a rotting mask, long emptied of anything human.
I tilt my lips into a mocking smirk.
"She didn't humiliate you by beating you like a dog… I did."
A vein twitches in his temple. He didn't expect me to keep provoking him. Didn't expect me to still talk like this after everything.
"Remember how I grabbed your stupid head and threatened you, huh?"
I speak deliberately rough. Loud. Dripping disdain.
Like spitting in his face—to draw all his fire onto me. To shield her.
And he snaps.
His fist flies like lightning—unavoidable, vicious. The impact cracks my jaw, a burst of white, then darkness. My head snaps back, the world spins, and for a second, I'm untethered.
But… worth it. Because now he sees only me. Hears only me. Hates only me.
"Do it."
The words land like a death sentence. Cold. Lifeless. Detached. No emotion—just mechanical approval of violence, like ordering a light turned off. Routine. As if pain is just another step.
One of his thugs—a hulking brute with fists like bricks—moves toward me. His eyes are dead, like a fighter who's forgotten how to feel.
First strike. Ribs scream. Air flees my lungs in a wheezing gasp, like I'm hit by a concrete beam. I buckle, but they hold me up—making sure I feel everything.
Second strike—solar plexus. Pain detonates inside me, a comet crashing through my chest. Vision blurs. My guts twist like they're trying to escape. I nearly choke on my own groan—nearly.
But I don't scream.
Somewhere in that thick, nauseating haze of pain—her voice.
"Stop! Please, enough!.."
Katrin screams. Choking on sobs. Not just sounds—her soul is being ripped out, her voice cracking like shards of glass. I hear her thrashing against the shackles, trying to break free, but the chains only clink in reply—cold and merciless.
The pain spreads through my body like poison, slow and insidious, crushing my muscles, grinding my bones, as if something inside me is splintering under pressure. I want to scream—no, howl, tear the air from my throat like a cornered animal. But I don't make a sound. I just clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Pain after waxing? Ha… that's a scratch compared to this. This isn't just physical—it feels like I'm being shattered from within, every movement a jolt of electricity.
But I stay silent. I hold on, because I know: if I scream—if I give in to what I want—I won't just hurt myself. Katrin will hear it. My love. She'll suffer even more. And I can't allow that. I won't let her pain grow because of me.
And then there's Ivan. Standing there. Watching. Waiting for me to break. I feel it—his sick, almost animalistic pleasure as he drinks in my agony. To him, this is a show, and he wants me as the star performer.
But I don't give it to him. Not a groan. Not a plea. Just ragged breathing, clenched fists, and eyes burning with fury. I'm alive. I'm at my limit. But I'm still me.
I don't have the right to surrender. If I groan—he wins. If I scream—she breaks. So I stay silent. Only the wet thuds of flesh on flesh fill the room. The pain becomes background noise, an endless symphony of violence.
"You trying to kill me or just playing around?"
The words force their way through my gritted teeth like a rusted blade. Every movement of my jaw sends fresh flares of pain, but I manage a smirk. Blood drips down my chin, but my grin is pure defiance.
"These aren't even hits—just tickles."
His face twitches. Just slightly. He doesn't like that I'm still alive—and laughing.
"You're right. Time to finish this."
Ivan's voice is hollow, indifferent, like a camp commandant. Then he's in front of me. His hand darts out—predatory—and suddenly yanks my hair.
Hard.
I roar. Can't stop it. Not a scream—a guttural, humiliated snarl. Feels like my scalp's about to rip off. A second later, my eyes are level with his. He stares. Close. Too close. Cold, glassy eyes.
The emptiness in them is absolute. Madness, not screaming—smiling.
"I won't kill you… At least, my boys'll try to keep you alive long enough for the ER. Wouldn't want you dying here like a stray pup."
His words ooze like venom. Thick, vile, scalding me from the inside. But I hold his gaze—don't look away. I don't know if I'll survive. Don't know if I'll escape. But I know one thing: if we meet again—one of us dies.
"Consider this me forgiving your... mistake."
His tone is almost jovial, condescending—but his fingers in my hair tell a different story. They dig in, like he wants to tear out not just the hair, but part of me.
"I won't touch your girl. Next time I see her, I'll pretend the bitch doesn't exist."
He jerks me closer. His breath hits my face—hot, reeking of cheap booze and tobacco. The stench burns my nostrils.
"But if you ever sharpen your teeth at me again—you die. Understood?"
"Yeah," I hiss, feeling blood slide from my split lip, thick and warm.
He shoves me away like a rag soaked in filth. The room falls into heavy silence—brief, but thick with tension. Ivan mutters to his men; I catch fragments, low chuckles.
Then—impact. A fist rams into my temple. White stars explode behind my eyes. The floor tilts, my legs give out, and I crash onto the concrete like a sack of bones.
And it begins. Boots. Heavy. Relentless. One after another.
Ribs. Stomach. Spine. I try to curl up, shield myself—but my body won't obey. The pain swallows me whole. It's all there is. But I don't make a sound. I just breathe. Through the wheezing, through the blood. Through death already breathing down my neck.
I close my eyes—and escape. In my mind.
To our world.
Where there's no fighting. No screams, no air trembling with fear, no heart clenching in anticipation of pain. Where time stops, leaving only the two of us. Where her scent lingers—warm, spicy, home. Where her hand rests in mine—soft, steady. Like everything's right. Like this is how it's meant to be.
We leave the hospital—not like fleeing a cage, not like escaping hell, just... like after a boring check-up. And she laughs. Really laughs, raw and husky, the sound I've always thought is the most beautiful in the world. Sunlight tangles in her hair, turning it to honey, to gold, to warmth. Her eyes crinkle, gleaming—and in that moment, I want to cry from sheer happiness because she's here. Alive. Light. Laughing.
Her voice—not ragged, not hoarse from terror, not drowned in tears, but warm, melodic, teasing. The voice she uses when she's half-singing, even when she scolds me.
We're at our café. It smells of fresh pastries, caramel, cinnamon. Childhood. Comfort. Home. She pretends to be annoyed, playfully pursing her lips when I order a third dessert.
"Chocolate cake again? Don't you get sick of it?" There's a smile hiding in her voice, like sun behind clouds.
"Do you?" I shoot back, staring into her eyes. And there it is—that glow.
Katrin smiles, her teeth lightly biting down on the spoon. Playful, childlike. As if she's trying to hide her embarrassment, even though she knows I adore every little thing she does. Her eyes—alive. Not shadows, not pain. Just life. Love. Thought. Spark.
And then—our home. We're tangled in the sheets, the air thick with the scent of her skin, lavender shampoo, and something unmistakably her. I kiss her shoulder—just below the mole I've memorized. She shivers, laughing, pushing me away with a breathless murmur:
"Stop, that tickles… idiot."
And I laugh too. Because this—this is happiness. Because it's her. Because she's laughing. Not crying. Not screaming. Laughing.
In that world, she's happy. In this one, she's happy. But somewhere beyond… somewhere far, like a muffled echo outside the walls of my mind—there's something else. Screams. The clang of metal. The rattle of chains. Fear. Cold. A world I refuse to let in. Her voice—cracked, raw with terror—calls for me from that darkness.
"Maxim…"
I don't hear it. I won't. I can't afford to. Because here—
Here, her lips brush mine. Imagined. Tender. Sacred. A kiss isn't just a touch. It's a promise. An anchor. The thing I cling to when everything else collapses. The only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
And that kiss… it's the last thing I feel. The last thing that's still mine. Warm. Alive. Before the darkness swallows everything. Before reality drags me back—cold, rusted, merciless. Before I hear her scream for real. But by then, it's too late. Because part of me stays there. In that world. Where she's happy.
I try to drown out the sounds. Try to erase her voice from my mind—hoarse, desperate, shattered to its core. She screams my name like it's her last hope, like the sound alone could pull her from this nightmare. But I… I don't answer. I can't.
The chains screech like steel claws. They rattle, tremble, groan as she thrashes against them—skin tearing, shoulders bruising, breath coming in ragged gasps. I know, too well, what she looks like right now. But I won't let myself picture it. Can't. Because if I imagine her face—streaked with tears, twisted in agony—if I let that image into my head, even for a second—I'll lose my mind.
No. Right now, she's smiling. That's the only way I let her exist in my thoughts. With that soft, familiar smile. With eyes that dance in warm light. She takes my hand—her fingers so warm, delicate, alive—and leads me to our bedroom. White sheets. Sunlight pooling on the floor. Her laughter, light as wind chimes.
Here, there are no screams. Here, there's only breathless kisses. Her lips finding mine in the dark. Her body arches into my touch like it's been waiting for nothing else. She pulls me closer, whispers my name—but now it's pleasure, not fear. Trust, not betrayal. A tone that belongs to us, and no one else.
I know every inch of her. Every curve, every freckle. Know how to make her tremble, how to pull tears of joy from her, how to wreck her until she's gasping my name—not in terror, but in ecstasy. And she calls for me, over and over, voice breaking for all the right reasons.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in—vanilla, skin, home—and wish I could freeze time. I want to stay there forever.
In my mind, we are alive. Real. And she isn't screaming in pain—she's laughing. Trembling under my hands. Fisting the sheets. Whispering:
"Don't let go…"
"Never," I answer. And kiss her again. Until nothing else exists.
I close my eyes and fall asleep like that. Clutching a ghost. Rebuilding her, over and over, just so I don't have to hear her real voice calling for me. So I don't have to remember she still believes I'll come for her.
So I don't have to face the truth: I'm already gone. The only place I can be with her now is in my dreams.
And that—that's the last thing I feel.
Before the darkness takes everything.