04

Then I find myself looking around the huge space I'm in. What could I do within these four enormous walls? If only time would stop; if only I could escape. My eyes anchor on the doorknob. Turning it will be in vain, yet with the delusional hope that it might grant me freedom, I walk over and twist it. But it's locked.

Damn it, I'm locked in. Which shouldn't surprise me, but it still hurts, brings helplessness, and infuriates me all at once. I clench my teeth.

I return to the bed and settle against the pillows. In the midst of despair, the questions frequently return. Issues pile up in my head—tangled thoughts that offer no help, merely weaving hypotheses and false alarms. I genuinely try to make sense of my kidnapping, but I find no connection between the Russian mafia and my family. Uncertainty rocks me like a swing moving back and forth; I know nothing about these guys. But... what information do they have on us?

I can't take this with sanity. I need to clarify the causes—something pointing toward reason. What if there are no motives? What if I'm really not the one who's supposed to be here?

I twist my hands, stranded in anguish that refuses to leave—worse yet, it returns with greater force. I pretend to sleep again upon sensing someone's arrival.

Footsteps shake the floorboards. As for me, I merely blink upon realizing it isn't a man; it isn't the wolf. To my surprise, it's a short, young woman with a soft appearance. She's carrying a pile of... folded blankets? That's what it looks like.

I don't know how to act in front of her, but she transmits confidence, encouraging me to strike up a conversation. At least I start with a greeting.

"Hello, my name is Luna Miller," I introduce myself. She barely smiles, and I wonder if she even understood my words. "You didn't understand me, did you?"

Priviet, she responds with an affable smile. "I'm Alena. I'm just here to drop this off instead of my colleague, and yes, I speak a little bit of your language."

"Listen..."

"Please, don't try to talk to me. Look, I'm quite busy, and I am strictly forbidden from speaking with you."

"I have no intention of getting you into trouble, but if you could help me escape... I'm innocent. I didn't do anything wrong to deserve being locked up here," I whisper desperately.

"I'm sorry, I can't do anything about it," she laments in a low tone. Then she walks over to the closet and neatly stores what she brought. My heart hammers hard, beating wildly. The assault hurts, but what destroys me more is that no one will do anything for me.

Yet her attitude is understandable. She wouldn't risk losing her job, much less put her life in danger to help a complete stranger. In her shoes, I wouldn't do it out of the exact same fear.

Before leaving, she looks at me with pity—tied down, out of options. Helping me is entirely out of her hands.

"You're not like them. I can see it in you," I utter in a whisper, though loud enough to be heard.

"I know you're innocent, and I'm very sorry you have to go through this. I just ask for your discretion and that you obey. Young Konstantinov isn't cruel," she asserts, stepping out immediately.

Not cruel? She must be joking. Aleksander is the Devil incarnate.

I rest my head back against the stacked pillows. Lying there, I think of my dad; of Grace, my seventeen-year-old sister—the fruit of Dad's marriage to Amber, the woman who has cared for me lovingly for as long as I can remember. Sadly, I lost my biological mother to an illness when I was only months old.

I never had the opportunity to know that wonderful being who carried me in her womb for nine months, but Dad has kept her memory alive in me through the fond moments he lived by her side.

Suddenly, my mind wanders to the social circle we Millers move in, crossing ideas and possibilities that someone within it could wish me harm. So many whys churn together in my brain. It's not far-fetched to believe a close acquaintance or friend is involved in what I'm living right now. In that case, who could have done something like this to me?

It remains a question mark.