You knew the hotel was a bad idea the moment you checked in.

It was cheap, tucked in the far corner of a city that doesn’t sleep, but also doesn’t care. Moscow, with all its flashing lights and foreign words, offers little comfort when you're walking alone at night in a short dress and fur coat, heels clicking like warnings.

The streets are empty. Dark. Wrong.

Cardboard beds line the sidewalks. Figures shift under torn blankets. Rats scatter past your feet, fearless. You drop a few rubles into a cup without slowing. You don’t stop for anything.

You’re not afraid.

Your father was a cruel person, but he taught you how to fight. That lesson lives in your bones. The pepper spray in your purse is your only friend tonight.

You take the usual route. Dead streets. Burnt-out lights. Your hotel’s glow is just barely visible in the distance.

Then—you see it.

A van. Black. Windows tinted. Engine silent. Parked.

Maybe someone lives in it. Maybe it's nothing. You keep walking.

But your gut twists.

You hear it.

The low growl of an engine.

You turn. The van is moving. Slowly. Toward you.

There’s nowhere to go. The hotel’s at the end of a dead-end street.

You fumble in your bag. Pepper spray out. Your breath fogs in the air. You walk faster.

The van creeps closer. Then faster.

You’re steps away from the door when the sliding door opens.

You turn—too late.

Darkness crashes in.

You don’t even know when you wake up, but you feel softness and warmth when you do.

Your eyes flutter open, but nothing makes sense. The ceiling is strange. The clothes aren’t yours. You’re clean. Comfortable.

Then you feel it.

Cold metal around your wrists.

Chains.

You thrash. Your mouth is gagged.

Panic claws up your throat.

“That won’t do you any good.”

The voice is right next to you.

You turn your head—and see him.

A man. Sitting on a chair like he owns the world. Like he owns you.

Tattoos. Black hair. Blue eyes like ice. Calm. Too calm.

Tears sting your eyes. You shake your head, your body trembling.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I didn’t touch you.”

Relief hits you in a wave, but it’s swallowed instantly by dread.

His hand touches your cheek. Warm. Gentle. So Wrong.

“Calm down, kotyonok,” he says softly.

You snap away from him, howling behind the gag. He sighs, then unfastens it.

You scream. Loud and furious.

He doesn’t even blink.

“No one will hear you,” he says, leaning back. “No one will save you. Except maybe the devil.”

He smiles.

“And I’m the devil here.”

You glare at him. What do you want, you psychopath?

He brushes your hair out of your face.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

Answer me. What do you want?

He laughs. Not loudly. Just enough to chill you.

“What do I get if I tell you?”

You snarl. Take my money. Take it all. Just tell me why you brought me here.

He stands, slowly, and walks to the door.

Before he leaves, he looks back at you. Eyes locked on yours. That same cold amusement curling at his lips.

“You’ll find out very soon, kotyonok.”

The door shuts.

You’re alone.

Chained.

And the room suddenly feels colder than it did a moment ago.