She held the glass to his lips. He didn’t open his mouth.
Lena’s voice dropped low and cold.
Lena: “Drink it, or I’ll find another part of you to cut open.”
Reluctantly, jaw tight with rage, Ivan opened his mouth and let the liquid slide down his throat. It was sharp, bitter, burning all the way down.
Almost instantly, his limbs felt heavy. Numb. Weak.
Lena
She leaned in and whispered softly.
Lena: “Good boy.”
Moments later, she returned with a rusted wheelchair. She unlocked the chains from his wrists and helped him into it—not gently, but carefully enough not to let him fall.
His head lolled slightly, dizziness creeping in.
She pushed him out of the room, through a narrow hallway and then outside.
The air hit his face—fresh, cool, and taunting. He hadn’t felt wind in days.
They moved slowly down a sloping path behind the abandoned house, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. The river came into view, calm and wide, glistening under the sun.
Lena
Lena stopped them right at the edge, next to a crooked bench.
Lena: “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
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