Chapter 35: The Failed Bolt

The silence of the penthouse was the most suffocating thing. It wasn't the silence of an empty house; it was the tailored, insulated quiet of a fortress—the kind of quiet that meant nothing was happening without permission.

I stood by the gym bag, the pathetic object of my rebellion. Inside: the eighty dollars, the farewell letters pinned to my oldest hoodie, a toothbrush, and my passport. My entire future, boiled down to a few items that could fit under a coat. The contrast was a slap in the face. This room alone cost more than I had ever earned in my life, and I was leaving it with the belongings of a vagrant.

My nerves were vibrating. It was 1:47 AM.

The security team changes shifts at 2:00 AM. There's a blind spot in the garage elevator access for exactly twelve minutes.

I didn't know how I knew that, but the knowledge was lodged in my brain, a cold, clinical data point. Maybe it was something Ivan had casually mentioned about "optimization," or maybe my survival instinct had simply absorbed the patterns of the prison.

I zipped the bag, the nylon zipper a startling, loud rasp in the stillness. I froze, listening, half-expecting a hidden speaker to boom: Stay where you are, Leo.

Nothing. Just the deep, velvet quiet of the Volkov world.

Go now. You have to go now.

My mind was a constant loop of Dmitri’s face, the cold fury when he looked at Liam. That fury, amplified ten times, was waiting for me. He would see this not as a desperate act of self-preservation, but as the ultimate, unforgivable betrayal of his trust, of his ownership. The thought made my legs feel heavy, like concrete.

But then, the memory of Mom's smile returned, shining like a beacon through the terror. I have to protect her peace.

"This is not about winning," I whispered into the quiet, anchoring myself with the mission. "This is about choosing my own fate, even if that fate is failure."

I pulled on my oldest, darkest jacket. The expensive, tailored items in the closet seemed to sneer at me. I moved to the desk and stared at the two letters, their stark presence the only noise in the room. They were my confession, my last attempt to steer the disaster away from Mom.

Leave them. Let them find them.

I walked to the door of my room, my hand hovering over the cold brass handle. This was the moment of no return. Once I stepped through that threshold, every alarm, every sensor, every hidden eye in the building would know I was moving outside my permitted zone.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

Just walk. Don't run. Don't look suspicious. Be the man who forgot his keys in the car.

I turned the handle slowly, quietly, easing the door open until there was just a sliver of darkness between the jambs.

The hallway was vast, lit only by soft, recessed floor lighting. It smelled faintly of leather and clean, sterile air. I stepped out, pulling the door shut behind me with excruciating care.

The gym bag felt heavy and conspicuous against my side. I started walking, not toward the main elevator bank—that was too obvious—but toward the private staff elevator that led directly to the underground parking garage.

My heart was beating so hard it felt like it was bruising my ribs. Every silent step on the plush carpet was an act of rebellion. I could practically feel the cold, calculating presence of the twins in the walls, sensing my movements, anticipating my every decision.

They know. They have to know. They let me get this far to test me.

The paranoia was suffocating, but I pushed through it. I reached the staff elevator alcove. I pressed the 'down' button. The small, plain silver light above the door flashed once, then glowed steadily.

No alarm. No siren. Just waiting.

The elevator dinged—a small, pleasant sound that seemed loud enough to wake the entire city. I slid inside, pressed the 'Garage - P3' button, and stared at the camera in the corner.

I know you're watching, Ivan. I know you're smiling, Dmitri. But I am doing this for her.

The ride down felt like an hour. The doors finally slid open onto the cavernous concrete expanse of P3, reserved exclusively for the Volkov personal fleet. The air smelled of cold concrete, ozone, and impossibly expensive car interiors.

I didn't stop to look at the silent, gleaming parade of custom vehicles. I walked quickly, making my way to the pedestrian exit—a heavy, fire-rated door marked EXIT.

I reached the door. I placed my hand on the cold crash bar. This was the last barrier. If I went through this door, I was outside the perimeter of the Residence.

I pushed.

The heavy door yielded, releasing a sudden, surprising rush of fresh, cool night air. The external alarm was silent. The only sound was the slight metallic hiss of the door closing behind me.

I was outside. On a narrow, service alley leading to a deserted cross-street.

My chest was heaving. I was shaking, but I was out.

I did it. I'm free.

I started walking faster now, turning onto the empty street. I clutched the gym bag, the reality of the cold, dark street hitting me: no chauffeur, no security guard, no velvet rug. Just me, the eighty dollars, and the overwhelming fear of the men I had just betrayed.

I kept walking, focusing on the nearest distant yellow taxi light. The sense of raw, terrifying freedom lasted exactly eight blocks. I told myself I was making progress. I told myself I was invisible.

Keep going. Just keep moving. Find the station. Find the train.

The overwhelming joy of the attempt was already starting to fade, replaced by the crushing weight of the inevitable. But I didn't stop. I walked faster, heading toward the chaos of the city,

away from the sterile, silent cage.