Page 65 of Scarlet Chains
The thought carries weight from too many battles where paying attention to that whisper in the back of my skull meant the difference between breathing and bleeding out.
Blyad.
But I can’t turn back now. Whatever waits in Room 5— Ilona, answers, or both— I’ll face it. First, I need to follow protocol. Shower, change, become the anonymous figure who can approach her without the weight of our shared history crushing every word.
The bathroom mirrors my memory— marble surfaces, soft lighting, luxury that makes sins feel sophisticated. I strip with deliberate movements, hang my clothes in the provided locker.Hot water burns against my skin but doesn’t wash away the dread coiling in my stomach.
When I step out, I draw in a breath to steady myself.
Fuck.
I feel like I haven’t slept in days.
Because I haven’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Sometimes angry, sometimes hurt, sometimes soft with emotions I don’t deserve. The nightmares have gotten worse since Budapest— visions of violence I’m too late to prevent.
The dark circles under my eyes tell the story of a man haunted by his choices. At least the mask will hide the worst of it.
I dry off with careful movements, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails. This ritual is familiar— the preparation, the transformation into someone anonymous and safe. Someone who can touch and be touched without history ruining everything.
But tonight feels different. Tonight, the mask isn’t protection— it’s camouflage.
I pull on a black silk robe, tie the sash with steady fingers that don’t betray the anxiety simmering beneath my skin. Then the leather mask, black and smooth, transforming me into a shadow of who I really am.
This is the moment of truth.
The thought echoes as I leave the bathroom, footsteps silent on plush carpet. I will talk to Ilona. We will clear things up. I just have to pick the right moment to reveal that it is me, Osip Sidorov, behind this mask.
The hallway seems longer on the return journey, each step carrying me closer to a confrontation I’ve rehearsed countless times. What will she think when I tell her the truth? That the man who destroyed her family is the same man who worshipped her body in darkness? How will she react when she realizesthat every gentle touch, every whispered endearment in Room 5 came from hands that have taken her father from her?
I’m rehearsing the scene in my head. The explanations I’ll give, the justifications I’ll offer. How I’ll make her understand that whatever she thinks she knows, there’s more to the story. That survival sometimes requires choices that stain your soul permanently.
But even my carefully crafted explanations feel inadequate against the simple truth that she loved her father, and I am the reason he’s gone.
I stop in front of Room 5, my hand resting on the brushed steel handle. The metal feels cold against my palm.
Here goes…
Deep breaths, mudak.
The measured calm I used to find before walking into situations where hesitation meant death. But this isn’t war— this is something more terrifying. This is the moment where I either reclaim the only good thing in my life or lose it forever.
My hand tightens on the handle, begins to turn—
A sound stops me.
Muffled noises coming from behind the door.
At first, I think it’s what I half expect— sounds of intimacy, of connection. But there’s something wrong with the rhythm, something desperate and violent that freezes me in place.
First, a dull thud.
Like a body hitting furniture. Or a wall.
Then a woman screaming something.
“No! Get off me!” The voice cuts through my chest, familiar and terrified and unmistakablyhers.
I recognize her voice.
