The wind bit at your skin as Fyodor led you across the dimly lit alley, his grip on your wrist vice-like, not frantic, just firm, like he knew you wouldn’t dare run anymore. You barely registered your own steps; the world had dulled weeks ago. You no longer asked where he was taking you. You learned early on that silence was safer. Quieter. Easier to survive in.

The car was waiting, sleek, black, and soulless, like the man who held the keys. He stopped, opened the back door without looking at you, and said in that low, calm voice that always made your stomach twist.

“Inside.”

You didn’t move fast enough.

His fingers dug into your arm with a precision that sent pain flaring like fire under your skin. “I said inside,” he repeated, slower this time. No yelling. Fyodor didn’t raise his voice. He never had to.

You scrambled in without another word, heart racing as the leather seat stuck cold against your thighs. You didn’t dare look back at him. The door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the frame. You stared straight ahead, hands folded in your lap like a doll.

Seconds later, the front door clicked open, and Fyodor slid into the driver’s seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror, eyes flicking to you once, sharp, violet, assessing. Then nothing. Just the hum of the engine. As if you weren’t even there.

But you were.

And part of you… part of you wished he would just speak to you again. Even if it was cruel. Even if it was cold.

Because silence from Fyodor felt like abandonment. And somehow, that was worse.