Voices echoed in my head—one light and feminine, oddly familiar, though I couldn't place it, and the other deep, resonant, clipped, as if the speaker were hastily defending some action. Their words slipped away from me, like smoke, leaving a sharp ache behind my temples. I leaned against the cold, hard surface behind me, squinting into the dim, distant light that barely cut through the gloom. Carefully, I turned my head, testing my neck. My temples throbbed, but the pain didn't worsen. A good sign.
I tried to piece together how I had ended up here. Flickering fragments passed through my mind: a mansion, a forest, Nikita's car, the pizzeria, and a red plaid shirt. I clung to each memory in turn, but when I reached the last, my throat tightened. Was this… a kidnapping? In broad daylight?
Panic rose, but as soon as I tried to stand, the room spun violently, and my body dragged me back down.
Okay. Don't panic. I need to see my surroundings, find something to steady myself.
I squinted into the half-light, making out vague silhouettes. An old, worn couch crouched in the far corner, surrounded by scattered boxes. A lantern hung, casting a weak glow on the pale walls. Every surface—the ceiling, floor, walls—was painted the same washed-out color. My right hand balled into a fist, tapping the floor. The sound was muted, almost plastic-like. I tried the walls—same result. Was I imagining it, or had they really lined the room with some synthetic material? My subconscious whispered, darkly humorous, that a serial killer might find plastic practical. My conscious mind didn't appreciate the joke.
As clarity returned, a chilling realization struck: the voices weren't in my head. They were real. Behind the wall, a man and a woman were arguing, loud enough that every word carried through the thin partition. The woman's voice was sharp, angry; the man's low and defensive.
I pressed my ear to the wall, straining to catch their words:
"If someone saw you with her, we're screwed, Gleb!"
"But you sent the girl to the bathroom yourself!"
A sharp smack followed—a hit, I assumed, from the woman to the man's face.
"Of course I sent her! Some visitor flushed something down the toilet, and the pipes couldn't handle it! There's a warning on the door about personal hygiene items, but they ignored it. The café got clogged. They only managed to clean it yesterday to recover the lost revenue. Timofeyevich couldn't fix it properly; materials were missing. Delivery won't arrive until next week. That's why I sent the girl elsewhere, and you snatched her!"
Another slap. The man muttered something remorseful:
"...usually the girls you send here for feeding. I saw her and packed her quickly. Habit, nothing more."
"Idiot! Didn't you ask me first? Did you see who she was sitting with?"
"There were plenty of people. Just like last time, I swear."
Another strike.
"Moron! We never take girls in daylight! Nobody gave you the signal!"
My stomach dropped. Feeding? Cannibals? Father had never mentioned anything like this—but maybe that was why: no remains, no evidence, only missing girls.
"What do we do with her now?"
"I don't know. We need to think. Fast."
"I can't keep her in the van. I have to load tonight."
The woman's scream was nearly a roar. The van. My mind raced.
The room made sense now—the light walls, the synthetic finish. Beyond the wall was the driver's compartment. Two people spoke inside: Gleb, the man in the red plaid shirt—the "abductor"—and the woman, unmistakably the pizzeria waitress. A perfect pair. Their scheme had malfunctioned. Their target: lonely girls, quietly lured from the pizzeria. Lost souls seeking help, a phone, or a toilet were guided straight to them by the angelic waitress, her gentle voice concealing a ruthless purpose.
"I have an idea," the woman said sharply, as if afraid to lose it.
The car doors slammed. I had to move. Crawling on all fours, I reached the boxes, hiding behind them. A creak betrayed someone unlocking a latch. Daylight flooded the space—the morning had barely begun. Maybe I could escape before Nik realized, before anyone else intervened.
"Where is she? Has she woken?" the man asked.
"Don't panic," the waitress said. "Gleb, sniff around. Her scent is strong. She can't be far. Check behind the boxes."
My heart sank. I scanned the room, searching for a path, but the only exit led directly to them. Sniff her? How could they track me by scent? I tried pressing my hair, my jacket to my nose—nothing. In my panic, I nudged a box. Its top tumbled to the floor.
In an instant, Gleb appeared, towering over me, uncertain for the first time.
"Gleb, please—" I choked, finding no words. Beg, threaten, appeal? None would save me—not with Galina waiting outside.
"Galya," he called, and she responded. "Bring her here."
He lifted me effortlessly, my protests weak against his strength.
"Let me go! Please! I won't tell anyone, I swear!"
His expression softened briefly, and for a moment, I dared hope. Then he shook it off, carrying me outside.
Galina's command: "Put her down."
The world shifted. The pizzeria was gone. We were in a forest. A broken dirt road sprawled beneath us, littered with leaves and puddles. The van loomed nearby. If I screamed, would anyone hear? Probably not—but I tried anyway, letting my voice cut through the silence.