Chapter Text
Why is it so dark?
You turned your head, slow at first, then faster in search for a shape, for a shadow, for any proof that the world still existed beyond this suffocating void. But there was nothing. No walls. No corners. No edges. Just blackness pressing against your vision like a blindfold sewn from night itself.
Your pulse quickened.
You looked up and there, a sliver of light hovered somewhere above you. It was faint and trembling, like a dying star seen through storm clouds. It was too distant to bring any relief, but it was something.
You locked your eyes onto it, clinging to that thin thread of light as your breathing began to spiral.
You tried to move toward it, but that was when you felt it. Your wrists wouldn’t budge.
You pulled instinctively, once and twice. Only then a cold realization crawled up your spine. Your arms were stretched tight behind you. Your ankles were secured. Thick straps bit into your skin, as though they had been fastened with careful precision.
You twisted harder.
Leather scraped. The burn came quick and vicious and the restraints didn’t loosen, not even a bit. Every struggle only made them constrict, pressing into flesh, stealing circulation, carving panic deeper into your bones.
Inhale.
Exhale.
You jerked your body forward, straining with everything you had. Pain shot through your shoulders. Your muscles screamed. The distant light wavered in your vision as tears blurred it into a useless smear.
No. No, no, no!
The darkness felt closer now, pressing tighter around you. Like the space around you was shrinking, compressing your fear until it had nowhere to go but inward.
You opened your mouth and ripped a scream from the center of your chest, but it never made it out.
“MGHH—!”
The sound collapsed into a grotesque, muffled choke. Something thick filled your mouth.
Cloth?
It was packed tight between your teeth, dry and suffocating. Your jaw ached from being forced open around it.
You tried again, but only a strangled groan answered you.
“Mmph!”
You heard footsteps. They were faint at first, then they became clearer.
Voices followed, low, casual, disturbingly calm for the situation you were in. They drifted through the darkness toward you.
Their tone wasn’t urgent, wasn’t angry. It was conversational. As if you weren’t here at all.
“Mmmphh!!!” you forced out, thrashing despite the pain slicing through your wrists.
The voices paused. For one suspended, terrible second, silence swallowed everything. Then one of them laughed, and the footsteps crept closer.
The same voice drew nearer, harsh and unrelenting in a language you couldn’t understand. Still, the malice behind the words made your blood run cold. Then he barked a command and the person with him obeyed instantly, flipping on the light quickly as if his life depended on it.
“Bravo!” he said, his voice rich and sonorous, punctuated by a deliberate clap.
You had hoped to escape the darkness, but not like this, not in a blinding, flickering glare that seared your vision.
He spoke again, and the other person hurriedly left, the door slamming shut with a deafening thud.
“Time to wake from the nap, hm? Yes?”
Two hands slammed onto your shoulders, heavy and insistent, and the weight of them told you everything: this was not going to be casual conversation.
“Foreigner, right?” He gave your shoulders a mocking squeeze. “Not seeing many of you lately. It’s always nice to have tourists around here.”
You blinked rapidly, forcing your eyes to adjust, searching for shapes, but all you could make out was an empty room with green painted walls.
“They’re usually more talkative,” he continued, stepping back and letting go of your shoulders. “Come around, tell me how to do things. Go do this, go do that… I don’t think I like that.”
His English was remarkably good, though thickly laced with a Slavic accent you couldn’t quite place. With so many Slavic speaking countries in the great Soviet Union, how were you supposed to know which one you were in? Even Alfred had worked hard to make the Soviet Union feel smaller, less threatening to the average American Joe, dividing the map just enough so it seemed less imposing.
“I understand it’s harder for you to speak with that thing in your mouth…”
You tried to look around, but he twisted your head forward from behind, keeping his presence just out of sight.
“If I take that off,” he continued, walking behind you, his heels echoing on the cold tile floor. “You promise I won’t hear any of that Western propaganda that’s been bombarding my front door?”
You nodded obediently, hoping for even a moment of relief as he stepped closer behind you.
“The last person who was here… proved so brave for their country that they pissed themselves and then died right in the seat you’re sitting in right now.”
Classic intimidation, nothing you hadn’t seen Alfred’s friends pull on supposed spies.
“We’ll see how this goes…”
He stepped even closer, and you could feel the heat of his presence press into your back. One hand moved to your jaw from behind, tilting your head slightly, and the gag was yanked free.
Even if you were free, you didn’t speak. Every word felt like it could be used against you, as if you were standing before a jury.
His head got closer, his chin almost leaning against your shoulder just to whisper into your ear.
“If you don’t answer what I want, the next thing in your mouth won’t be as pleasing as a soft cotton cloth, okaaaay?” he said, dragging the last word with an exaggerated American accent.
An uneasy silence settled between you. Then, without warning, his hands returned to your shoulders, pressing down just enough to force the answer from your lungs.
“Okay! Y-Yes!” you blurted, the words stumbling over each other.
A quiet chuckle left his lungs. “Is everyone in your country as compliant as you? If so… I wouldn’t mind having more like you in here.”
“Here… um… where, if I may ask?”
“I make the questions,” he replied, the warmth slipping just slightly from his tone, cooled enough to remind you who was in control.
Silence settled into the small room once more before he spoke again.
“Great. Nooooow…”
His hands gripped the back of your wooden chair and slowly turned it. The legs dragged heavily across the tiled floor, the sharp scrape echoing in the confined space like a blade being drawn. The sound lingered until you were forced to face the wall behind you.
A metal table stood there, stark and deliberate under the harsh light. Its surface gleamed coldly, lined with instruments arranged in careful order.
“We’ll start with something simple. Yes or no answers only. Easy, right? Easier than American standardized tests.”
Your eyes moved over the display despite yourself. Scissors with narrow, pointed tips. Knives of different shapes, some curved delicately, others straight and severe. Slender tools built for precision, their edges clean, almost clinical. And then there was the pipe. Thick. Blunt. Rusty. It lay among the refined instruments as though it didn’t need a presentation, its blunt presence speaking for itself.
“What’s your relationship with Alfred F. Jones?”
The exam had already begun, though your attention was still fixed on the metal pipe. You stared at it, transfixed, as if it were the only real threat in the room, forgetting for a dangerous second, the man standing behind you.
“I’ll repeat it just once more…”
For the first time, he stepped into your line of sight, moving around the chair with unhurried precision. His gaze skimmed over the instruments laid out before you, as though selecting from a menu rather than a table of tools.
He wore a uniform suit, impeccably coordinated from head to toe, though a long scarf hung awkwardly, almost out of place with the rest of the outfit. But what struck you most was his height. Standing there, upright and composed, he seemed impossibly tall. Perhaps it was the angle, perhaps it was the way you were restrained and seated, but from where you were, he felt towering.
“Relationship with Alfred F. Jones?” he repeated.
“How am I supposed to answer with a—”
“Just answer.”
He turned fully toward you then, and you didn’t dare lift your gaze to his face, not when a pair of scissors rested casually in his gloved hand. The blades caught the light as he adjusted his grip, the faint metallic click slicing through the room.
“Oh! Mm. Yes… Relationship with Alfred. I—”
He arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a laugh. “Yes?”
“I’m not directly related to him.”
“Not directly related?” he echoed mildly. “And what exactly does that mean?”
Heat crept over you. It wrapped around your body like oppressive summer humidity, clinging to your skin despite the cold room.
“I, uh… erm…”
You winced inwardly. Of all the ways to respond, that was the worst. But your nerves were fraying faster than you could contain them.
“Do you work for him?”
“No, sir.”
“Sir?” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I like that.”
He set the scissors back onto the table with deliberate care, as though satisfied for the moment.
Leaning back against the table, he was careful not to disturb the neat arrangement of instruments. His gloved hands rested lightly against the cold metallic edge, composed, patiently drumming against it.
“You said you’re not directly related to him,” he continued evenly. “Does that mean you’re friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that, sir. N–No,” you corrected yourself quickly, already regretting having said too much.
“But something like that, hm?” he replied, a quiet chuckle following.
He pushed himself off the table and walked back toward you. Each step was unhurried. And when he reached you, he bent down until he was level with your face, deliberately closing off any chance to look away.
“How do you call it?” he asked thoughtfully, gloved fingers sliding beneath your chin and lifting it just enough to force your gaze to meet his.
For the first time, you saw his face clearly. And absurdly you felt a flicker of relief. If this was how you were going to die, at least it would be at the hands of someone painfully handsome. The thought unsettled you almost as much as he did.
“Friends with benefits?” he repeated, studying your face with open curiosity. “Is that the way you say it?”
“No.”
“Did I say it wrong?” His thumb shifted lightly against your jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure your eyes stayed on his. “Instruct me. I don’t mind.”
“No, no! I meant… we’re not friends with benefits!”
“Ooooh…”
His smile widened, cheeks rounding in an almost absurdly cute way, suggesting a softness that felt strangely at odds with everything else about him.
“How often do you… see each other?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual, touched with the faintest hint of amusement. “Or was it just a one time thing?”
“We didn’t have sex!” you blurted, the words spilling out too fast, as if they could shield you from whatever conclusion he was forming.
“Oh?” His brow arched slightly. “So you didn’t get the chance, you mean?”
“I didn’t—”
“But you tried, yes?”
“No.”
“Not even a quick hand job?” he asked lightly, as if clarifying a minor detail on a form.
“That still counts as sex,” you shot back, heat rushing to your face. “So no.”
“Hmm.” His head tilted slightly. “Not even a small kiss?”
“No!”
“On the cheek?”
“No…”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are very defensive for someone so uninvolved.”
“I don’t have any relationship with Alfred.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then he laughed. Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained breath of amusement. He laughed fully, head tipping back, shoulders shaking, the sound spilling out of him in bright, uncontained waves that ricocheted off the walls.
What startled you most was not the sound of it, but the realization creeping in beneath your panic. You were more concerned with making it absolutely clear that nothing had happened between you and Alfred than with the very real possibility that you might not leave this room alive.
The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun, like a switch flipped off. Whatever warmth had animated his face vanished, leaving something far more controlled behind.
“Would you care if he died?”
The question landed heavily in the space between you.
“I mean, he’s quite frankly an asshole and an idiot, but—”
“Just yes or no,” he interrupted smoothly, the softness gone from his voice before you could finish.
The silence that followed was heavy, and it turned suffocating when he reached for the metal pipe. It had been sitting there the entire time, waiting patiently, like a silent reminder of what he was capable of.
He weighed it lightly in his gloved hand before looking back at you.
“I’ll make it simpler,” he said calmly. “If I had a gun pointed at Alfred right now, and the only way to save your life was to let me pull the trigger… would you let me?”
“No.”
“Good choice.”
BANG
With a sudden, precise motion, he brought the pipe down on the back of your head. Pain exploded across your skull, and everything faded into darkness.