(Direct continuation of the kidnapping. Darya is 17 years old.)
The engine upstairs roars once, then dies. Car doors slam—three, four times. Heavy footsteps on the creaking wooden floor. Muffled voices, Russian mixed with broken English. I stop working the knot. My heart races, but it's not fear. It's anticipation. Rescue or trap? Either way, movement means opportunity.
The stairs creak again. Heavier this time. Several pairs of boots descending at once. The door bursts open violently, slamming against the concrete wall. Bright light floods the basement—tactical flashlights, not the hanging bulb. I squint against the glare.
Dimitri Tival enters first, but he's not smiling anymore. Blood stains his shirt collar, and he holds a Glock with a trembling hand. Behind him, Pavel drags a body—one of their own men, judging by the way the head lolls. Then he appears.
Mikhail.
Messy brown hair, the oversized coat still filthy with dirt and something dark that could be blood. No visible gun in his hand, but a knife is sheathed at his belt—the same one I saw on the coffee table in the Blackwell living room months ago. His amber eyes find mine immediately. No surprise. No relief. Just that cold intensity, as if he's calculating how many seconds I can still hold out before breaking.
Dimitri points the gun at him.
— You said you'd bring all five at once, Holloway. Not some kid playing hero alone.
Mikhail doesn't answer right away. He takes a slow step forward, as if the Glock barrel means nothing.
— I said I'd bring trouble for the Blackwells — his voice is low, almost lazy. — I didn't say I'd make it easy for you.
Dimitri laughs, but it sounds forced.
— You think you can flip the game now? After months eating at their table, sleeping in their house? They trust you, kid. And trust is a short rope for hanging someone.
Mikhail tilts his head toward me without taking his eyes off Dimitri.
— She's still alive. That means you still need me.
A chill runs up my spine. He's not here to save me. He's negotiating.
Pavel drops the body to the floor with a wet thud and advances, but Dimitri raises his free hand to stop him.
— Speak plainly, Holloway. What do you want?
Mikhail finally looks at me again. Just for a second.
— Time. And her intact. No more missing fingers. No more marks that can't be explained as "training accidents." — He turns back to Dimitri. — Give me 48 hours. I'll come back with Heros, Luther, and the others. Alone. No backup. You get all five at once. I take the credit for the delivery.
My stomach churns. 48 hours. He's selling my fathers. Selling me. And he's doing it right in front of me, like I'm just another piece on the board.
Dimitri lowers the gun slowly.
— Why should I believe you now?
— Because if I wanted to kill you, I already would have. — Mikhail nods toward the body on the floor. — And because I know where the Blackwells keep the shipment you want. The one worth more than one girl's life.
Heavy silence.
Dimitri looks at me, then at Mikhail.
— Fine. 48 hours. But she stays here. Tied up. No food. No water. And if you don't come back with the five… — He presses the Glock barrel to my temple. — I start with the face. So you remember exactly what you lost.
Mikhail doesn't blink.
— Deal.
He turns his back and starts up the stairs. But before disappearing, he stops. Looks at me over his shoulder.
— Hold on, Darya.
His voice is almost soft. Almost concerned. Almost convincing.
The door slams upstairs.
Dimitri holsters the gun and crouches in front of me again.
— Your new friend is interesting. — He takes my chin, gentler this time, like he's admiring a work of art. — But he's going to hand you over. And when he does… I'll make you watch while I cut each of your five fathers in front of you. Starting with Heros. He's always been the one who pissed me off the most.
I don't answer. I clench my teeth until I taste fresh blood.
They leave. The light vanishes. Darkness again.
But now it's different. Because I know.
Mikhail isn't the skinny boy who arrived with a beat-up backpack. He isn't the stranger who watches everything without blinking. He's the wolf who slipped into our house pretending to be a lamb.
And me? I'm the prey who hasn't yet learned to bite back.
But I will learn.
I start working the knot again. Faster now. Because 48 hours is enough time for a lot of things to happen.
Enough time for me to escape alone. Enough time for me to find Mikhail before he finds my fathers. Enough time for me to discover whether those amber eyes hide only betrayal… or something worse.
Something that burns hotter than hate.
Something I don't want to name yet.