Chapter 29: The Denied Identity

The afternoon was grey, dull, and quiet—the kind of quiet that usually fueled my best work. But since my deep, shameful confession to Ivan, and Dmitri’s triumphant acceptance of my fear, I hadn’t been able to concentrate. The cold, empty peace they had given me was starting to feel like emotional starvation. I needed to taste the world again.

I was restless, pacing the length of the glass studio, staring at the perfectly rendered, cold white lines of the Sculpture model on the screen. The only thing missing from my life was a piece of the old me—the Leo Vance who argued with baristas and haggled over rent and felt the sharp, vital sting of anxiety.

I knew exactly where to go. The Grindstone. A tiny, overly loud coffee shop near the university campus. They made a brutal, strong espresso, and the air always smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. It was the last place the Volkovs would ever set foot.

My mind was a whirlwind of desperate rebellion. They control the money. They control the art. They control my body. But they cannot control where I walk. I will go and buy a coffee. Alone.

I didn’t ask for a driver. I didn't announce my departure. I simply grabbed a basic, unmarked jacket and slipped out the back entrance of the city gallery branch, telling the single, bored receptionist I was taking a walk to clear my head. I walked fast, weaving through the crowded downtown streets, letting the noise of the city wash over me. I wasn't running from them, not exactly. I was running to a memory.

The walk was exhilarating. I felt my lungs fill with smog and life. The simple act of choosing my direction, turning a corner without permission, felt like a massive act of defiance.

I reached The Grindstone. It was cramped, buzzing with students and the loud, rhythmic clatter of the espresso machine. I pulled my hood lower, walked up to the counter, and ordered.

“Double shot, single origin, small splash of oat milk. No sugar,” I requested, reciting the order I hadn't made in months.

The barista, a young woman with pink hair, didn't recognize me. She simply took my money and spun around to the machine.

I stood waiting, leaning against the counter, listening to the bad indie music and the endless chatter about finals and rent hikes. The raw, messy normalcy of it was overwhelming. My mind was suddenly clear, free of the oppressive silence of the Residence. This is real. This is my life. They can’t touch this part of me.

The barista called my name. I walked over, grabbed the scorching hot paper cup, and took a huge, grateful sip. The bitter, burnt taste was perfect.

I turned to leave, and that’s when I saw it.

Parked directly across the street, illegally idling, was a sleek, black Mercedes sedan. Not one of Arthur Volkov’s big security SUVs, but a simple, understated, almost invisible sedan. It looked like any expensive car in the city, except for the glass. The tint was too dark, too perfect, completely obscuring the interior.

My heart immediately plummeted, the sweet taste of the espresso turning instantly sour.

Then, the passenger door opened. A man stepped out. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, nondescript but flawlessly tailored. He wasn't burly security; he was something far worse—a high-level attendant, a personal fixer. He looked like an investment banker who specialized in quiet removal.

He didn't look frantic or rushed. He simply crossed the street at a measured pace and stopped right in front of the coffee shop entrance, blocking my path.

"Mr. Vance," the man said, his voice quiet, professional, and utterly calm. He showed no sign of recognition or surprise, as if I had simply been delayed on an expected errand. "I apologize for the intrusion. Mr. Ivan Volkov has requested your immediate presence back at the gallery. There is a necessary review of the structural stability of the Sculpture's foundation plan."

My mind was a chaotic mess of crushing disappointment and white-hot shame. They knew. They were waiting. They were letting me play my little game of rebellion, and they allowed me to walk right into the trap.

"I was just... getting coffee," I stammered, the cup suddenly feeling heavy and awkward in my hand.

The man, whose name I didn't know and didn't need to, offered a neutral, practiced smile. "Of course. And it looks like a very good one. However, the review is urgent. Mr. Ivan Volkov asked me to convey that 'Unsanctioned emotional excursions have a detrimental impact on strategic planning.' We must return immediately."

The message was clear, precise, and devastatingly personal. Ivan knew exactly why I was here—to reclaim a piece of my old identity—and he had dispatched a perfectly polite, professional warden to deny it.

"I can walk back," I offered, still grasping at the pathetic remnants of my autonomy. "It's only ten blocks."

"That will not be necessary, sir," the driver insisted, moving slightly closer, his presence entirely non-threatening yet completely impossible to bypass. "The car is climate-controlled and faster. We are here for your comfort and efficiency. Please. Mr. Volkov dislikes unnecessary deviations from the schedule."

I stood there, defeated, staring into the dark reflection of my own face in his perfectly polished shoe. The Denied Identity. I hadn't been testing them; they had been testing me. And I failed. My small act of rebellion had been monitored, judged, and immediately neutralized.

I felt the immense, cold reality of their gaze pressing down on me. They weren't just watching the gallery; they were watching the surrounding streets, tracking my gait, timing my coffee order. They had completely eliminated the possibility of an unmonitored life.

My mind was sinking into a deep, heavy resignation. This is what total security looks like. It is total surveillance. There are no corners, no shadows, no moments that are just mine. Every movement I make is calculated, assessed, and approved.

I handed the coffee cup back to the attendant. "Here. I won't need this."

The man took the cup without question, and immediately tossed it into a nearby public trash can. The waste of the strong, bitter coffee was the final, crushing metaphor for the waste of my rebellion.

"Excellent, Mr. Vance," the attendant said, a slight tone of approval entering his voice. "Choosing efficiency is always the correct approach."

He guided me gently across the street and opened the car door. I slid into the soft, luxurious leather, sinking into the silence of the black sedan. The car was isolating, warm, and utterly secure.

As we pulled away, speeding past the chaotic, buzzing life of The Grindstone, my mind was settling into the deep, quiet acceptance I hadn't felt since my last conversation with Dmitri.

I am a permanent part of their structure now. There is no outside. The fear of their wrath is real, but the terror of the free world is worse. They will never let me fall, because they will never let me choose. And right now, that is the only thing keeping me breathing.

I closed my eyes, accepting the finality of the denial. The simple, fierce comfort of the secure car was overwhelming. I was being returned to the cage. And the most terrifying part

? I knew I would be safe there.