Anna
The morning light filtered through the high windows, casting a cold silver sheen over everything. Anna sat by the glass, her knees pulled to her chest, heartbeat slow but erratic. She hadn't slept. Again. Sleep in this place was always shallow—haunted by questions, by footsteps that stopped too close to her door, by his voice in the back of her mind.
But tonight, it wasn't fear that kept her awake.
It was what he said.
"Then go."
He'd offered her freedom like a dagger—point-first. And she hadn't taken it.
Not because she was broken. Not because she trusted him.
Because she didn't know what waited beyond those walls anymore.
And that terrified her more than staying.
The door opened behind her with a soft, deliberate sound. She didn't turn around.
"I'm not here to threaten you," Ivan said.
She didn't reply. She stayed curled against the glass, her breath fogging a soft halo on the windowpane.
"I expected you to run," he added.
"I expected you to stop me," she said quietly.
Silence stretched between them, thick as smoke.
Then she heard him step forward. She turned her head slightly—just enough to see him move closer in the reflection of the glass.
He was barefoot, in dark lounge pants and a half-buttoned shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His hair was slightly tousled, his face unreadable.
He looked… human.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
He sat on the edge of the window seat across from her, leaving barely a foot of space between them. Not touching. Just there.
"I've crushed stronger women than you," he said simply.
"I'm sure you have."
"But I don't want to crush you."
Anna looked at him now, fully. His eyes were dark, but softer than she'd ever seen them.
"Then what do you want, Ivan?"
He didn't answer right away. He looked at her like she was a question he couldn't solve. Finally, he spoke.
"I want you to see me."
She blinked. "I see you."
"No," he said, voice low. "You see what you're supposed to see. Power. Fear. Control. The Beast."
He leaned slightly forward.
"I want you to see the man who's still buried under all of that."
Anna's heart skipped. It was the first time he'd spoken about himself without a mask, without performance. The man beneath the weapon. The scar beneath the silk.
"I don't want to see the man who does this to people," she whispered.
"I don't need your forgiveness."
"That's not what I'm offering."
He tilted his head. "Then what are you offering?"
"A chance," she said.
"To what?"
"To become someone worth choosing."
He stared at her, stunned into silence. It was only a moment—but she saw it. A crack. A flicker of something almost… lost.
His hand moved slowly, carefully, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She didn't flinch. Didn't move. Her skin burned where he touched her, but she didn't pull away.
Neither of them moved for a long time.
And for the first time since entering this place, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to leave.
---
Ivan
He'd miscalculated.
She wasn't a fire to stamp out. She was the kind that burned cold—quiet and constant, even in silence. He had tried to tame her. Now she sat across from him, legs folded beneath her, spine straight, and she was the one undoing him.
He'd opened that door last night to test her.
But it had become his test instead.
She could have run. Could have slipped out through that hallway, past the guards he'd strategically shifted to create an opening. It wasn't real freedom, not truly, but she didn't know that.
And yet, she came back.
Voluntarily.
Why?
He'd watched her—camera feeds, audio, every move recorded. Not because he didn't trust her. Because he couldn't afford to. She was a variable in a world built on predictability.
And now… she was changing it.
He leaned back slightly, studying her face. The defiance was still there, but something new coiled beneath it: curiosity. A hint of something that might one day bloom into something far more dangerous than hate.
Understanding.
"I don't need to force what I can have willingly," he had told her once. But he hadn't expected to want her willingness.
Not like this.
She saw through him. Not just the sharp edges, but the hollow parts. The ones no one had dared name. Not even him.
"You said you wanted me to choose," she said now, voice barely above a whisper. "But if you want that, you have to stop treating me like I'm breakable."
He exhaled, slowly. "You're not."
"Then stop testing me."
She was right. He knew it. This wasn't a chessboard anymore.
It was a confession.
"You can't control how I feel about you, Ivan," she said softly. "And you can't manufacture love."
He laughed once—quiet, bitter. "I never believed in love."
"That doesn't mean it won't find you anyway."
She stood then. Just rose to her feet and walked to the door, barefoot and calm. But before she opened it, she looked over her shoulder.
"You're not a monster, Ivan," she said. "Not unless you choose to be."
And then she was gone.
Ivan sat in silence, her warmth still lingering in the space between them. For the first time in years, the silence didn't comfort him.
It hollowed him out.
And filled him with fire.