Anya woke to silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses against your skull and makes it hard to tell how long you have been gone from yourself.
Her eyes opened slowly. White ceiling. Recessed lights. No windows. The air smelled clean in a way that made her uneasy. Disinfectant. Money. Control.
She tried to sit up.
Pain answered immediately. A sharp pull through her shoulders, her wrists. She sucked in a breath and froze.
She was on a bed. Not restrained, but positioned carefully. Like someone had decided exactly how she would wake.
Her coat was gone. Her boots too. She wore a thin shirt and unfamiliar pants, soft and dark, not hers. Someone had dressed her while she was unconscious.
That realization slid under her skin and stayed there.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. Stone. Her feet curled instinctively against it.
The door opened.
Ivan Volkov stepped inside.
No guards. No announcement.
Just him.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed loosely, as if he had all the time in the world. As if she was not going anywhere.
"You're awake," he said.
It was not a question.
Anya pushed herself to her feet. The room tilted for a moment, then steadied. She refused to sit back down.
"How long," she asked.
"Six hours."
She swallowed. "What did you do to me."
Ivan's gaze moved over her slowly. Not leering. Assessing.
"You fainted," he said. "Your body chose for you."
Her jaw tightened. "My clothes."
"They were dirty."
"Who changed me."
"I did."
The answer was immediate. Unapologetic.
Her stomach twisted. "You didn't have the right."
Ivan pushed off the door and walked toward her. Each step was unhurried. Intentional.
"Rights are fragile things," he said. "They exist only where power allows them to."
He stopped a few feet away. Close enough to feel. Too close.
"You were not harmed," he continued. "You are intact. That matters."
"To who," she snapped.
"To me."
Silence fell heavy between them.
Ivan studied her face. The tight line of her mouth. The way she held herself upright despite the fear he knew was there. He liked control. He did not need obedience yet. He needed information.
"You did not sleep peacefully," he said.
"I didn't sleep," she replied.
A lie.
He tilted his head slightly. "You talked."
Her blood went cold.
"I don't believe you."
"You said a name," Ivan went on. "More than once."
Her pulse betrayed her. She hated it.
"What name," she asked.
Ivan watched the flicker in her eyes. The micro hesitation she couldn't stop.
"That is not how this works," he said. "I ask. You answer."
She laughed softly. It came out wrong. Thin. "Or what."
Ivan moved.
One second he was standing in front of her. The next, his hand was around her throat, not squeezing, just enough pressure to make his point unmistakable. He pinned her back against the wall without slamming her, without hurry.
"You misunderstand me," he said quietly. "I do not threaten. I demonstrate."
Her breath came shallow. Her hands hovered uselessly at his wrists. She did not try to pry him off. She knew better.
His thumb brushed her pulse. Slow. Intentional.
"I could break you," he said. "But broken things are loud. Messy. You are not."
He released her and stepped back as if nothing had happened.
Anya slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, chest burning, vision bright at the edges.
Ivan watched her. Allowed it.
"Stand," he said.
She looked up at him, hatred sharp and bright in her eyes. Then she pushed herself to her feet.
Good, Ivan thought. She chooses survival.
"There are rules," he said. "You will learn them quickly."
He gestured around the room. "You do not leave without permission. You do not touch my men. You do not lie to me."
She steadied her breathing. "And if I do."
Ivan's mouth curved slightly.
"Then I remind you why you are still alive."
She hugged herself, nails digging into her arms. "You said I was safer here."
"You are."
"With a man who just put his hand around my throat."
Ivan stepped closer again, lowering his voice.
"There are worse hands looking for you," he said. "Mine are the reason they will never touch you."
Her heart pounded. "Who."
He straightened. "Not yet."
He turned toward the door.
"You will be fed," he said. "You will rest."
He paused, hand on the handle.
"And Anya," he added.
She looked at him.
"You are not a guest," Ivan said. "Do not forget that."
The door closed.
The lock slid into place.
Anya stood there shaking, throat burning where his fingers had been, her body still remembering the exact shape of his grip.
She had woken in captivity.
And now she understood something far worse.
Ivan Volkov did not need chains.
He was the cage.