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Valentina
Bars block the window, casting a pattern of shadows on the plain white room. It's too pristine, too clinical—feels like I'm in some sick, twisted version of a spa retreat. Except instead of hot towels and calming music, I get 1970’s paneled walls and the echo of my own rage.
"Let me out, you bastard!" I roar, fists pounding on the door with as much fury as I can muster. The metal surface is unyielding, cold against the heat of my anger.
"Valya," Vladimir's voice filters through, muffled by the thick barrier. "You know I can't do that."
I grit my teeth. "I need to see my son! You can't keep me away from him." Panic threads through me. I can't—won't—let anything happen to Ilya.
"I'll take care of him," he responds, his tone dripping with a twisted kind of concern. "He's my nephew, after all. I'll pick him up, ensure he's safe."
My brother might be many things, but the trustworthy guardian of my child he is not. "You think I'd trust you with him after this?"
There's a pause. I can picture him—leaning against the door from the other side, probably with an infuriating, smug smirk on his face. "You're the one who betrayed us," he finally says, each word dripping with accusation.
The audacity of his claim stops me in my tracks. Betrayal? Was standing up for the truth, for my own feelings, betrayal? My voice trembles with a mixture of rage and helplessness. "Are you so blind you can't see that maybe I wanted to find the truth about Iosef's death? Without bloodshed?"
He scoffs. "You and your love-struck fantasies. Roman's an Antonov-Nicolaevich. They're our enemies. Always have been, always will be."
I press my forehead against the door, closing my eyes momentarily. "All I wanted was answers, Vladi. Not another war. If you'd looked past your damn pride and ego, maybe you'd see that."
Silence reigns for what feels like an eternity. "You've always been too soft, Valya," he finally speaks. "It was only a matter of time before it came back to bite you. Now, you're going to sit in there and think about your choices."
"Like hell I will!" I shout, kicking the door, frustration seeping into every fiber of my being. "I won't rest until I'm out of here and back with Ilya."
No response.
As the minutes stretch on, the reality of my confinement sinks in. I'm trapped, and Vladimir holds all the cards. At least for now. My mind races, strategizing, already plotting my next move. My brother might have the upper hand momentarily, but I am the Ghost. He's about to find out what happens when you corner someone like me.
In the cold silence following Vladimir's departure, the weight of the room presses in on me. It's stifling, as if the very walls are closing in, and a sudden bout of nausea twists my stomach. I can feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, despite the chill that runs down my spine. My head swims, a deep dizziness clouding my vision and making the dimly lit room spin.
I stagger to the metal cot, trying to hold myself up, but my legs buckle beneath me, sending me tumbling to the floor. The metallic taste of bile rises in my throat, and I press a hand to my mouth, struggling to keep from being sick. My entire body is rebelling against me, cold sweat drenching my back and hair, while my skin burns as though I'm trapped in a fever dream.
For a split second, as I lie prone on the cold ground, a fleeting thought crosses my mind: could I be pregnant? The idea hits me like a freight train, but almost as quickly, I push it away.Impossible,I tell myself.You're just under stress, which is making you sick.Still, the nagging doubt remains. The symptoms are familiar—too familiar. But now isn’t the time to indulge in wild speculations. My current predicament demands my full attention.
With a grunt, I force myself to sit up, even though the world tilts dangerously around me. Using the cot as support, I drag myself up. Determination fuels me. I won't let Vladimir break me. I can't afford to. Not when the safety of my son is at stake.
I pound on the locked door with all the strength I can muster, my fists hammering at the metal even though my body feels weak. "Let me out!" I scream. "I have to see my son!"
But the only reply is a cold, suffocating silence.
Desperation and fear set in. I search every inch of the room, looking for an escape, any kind of weak point. But the room is fortified. A prison. Vladimir didn't take any chances when it came to his sister, it seems.
Hopelessness bears down on me, and I slump against the wall. Tears spring to my eyes, but I wipe them away furiously. Crying won’t help me. It won’t change the fact that, for all I know, Roman could be dead. Or that Vladimir might very well keep me from my son indefinitely.
Memories of my time with Roman flit across my mind's eye: the way he looked at me, the passion, the trust. Was it all for nothing? Was it just a fleeting moment doomed from the start? Was it worth it?
My thoughts circle back to the slight dizziness, the nausea, the feverish feeling. The idea that I could be pregnant gnaws at the edges of my consciousness, but I force it down again. It's just stress, I tell myself. It has to be.
In the midst of my anguish, a glint catches my eye. A shimmer of hope in this hellhole. One of the wall panels seems oddly out of place, with a faint outline almost imperceptible against the dim room lighting. Curiosity piqued, I force myself up and edge closer to inspect it.
Carefully, I press on the loose panel and feel it shift. My heart races. Kicking it with precision, the panel gives way, revealing a small, dark crawl space. It's barely the width of my shoulders and stretches into darkness. The unknown path promises both hope and danger, but it's better than sitting here waiting to be disposed of. Taking a deep breath, I ease myself into the confined space.
The crawl space is suffocating. My chest heaves but the thought of Ilya, of freedom, keeps pushing me forward. Dust tickles my nose and cobwebs brush against my face, but I force my mind to focus on the escape, trying to remember every stealth technique I've learned over the years.
Finally, the confined passageway leads to another loose panel. Pressing an ear to it, I strain to hear any sounds of movement. The distant murmur of voices in conversation reaches me. Drawing on my years as the Ghost, I cautiously remove the panel and peer into the dim corridor.
Several Chechen gangsters are lounging around, deep in conversation. Their backs are turned to me. Slipping through the shadows, I weave between pockets of darkness, making sure I stay out of their line of sight. My senses are heightened, every sound amplified. The soft shuffle of a boot, the murmur of a voice, the distant hum of a space heater — everything registers.
