Chapter 2: Abbey

Anne's Point of View

The penthouse was a grotesque parody of sanctuary, a mocking inversion of the quiet church where I usually found solace. Sunlight, a cruel spotlight, poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, showcasing a breathtaking view of Lviv—a city I'd barely even arrived in.  This opulence… it’s suffocating.  It feels wrong. The breathtaking vista was a cruel joke, a stark contrast to the claustrophobic feeling of vulnerability that gripped me. The vast space echoed with an unnerving silence, broken only by the distant, indifferent hum of the city—a far cry from the peaceful hymns that usually calmed my soul. The opulence was suffocating, a cold, sterile luxury that only amplified my sense of violation. My head throbbed, the disorientation intensified by the chilling fact that I was only in my underwear. The discarded red dress, a scarlet stain on the polished marble floor, lay like a discarded offering, a stark reminder of the night's events and the casual disregard for my dignity. Each creak of the marble beneath my bare feet echoed the tremor in my soul.  Who did this? Why?

"Where… where am I?" I whispered, pulling the sheet tighter around me. The vastness of the room made the sheet feel even more inadequate, a pathetic substitute for the comfort and sanctuary I found in my faith. My breath hitched in my throat, a silent prayer unanswered. Please, someone…

The man—his face still a blur of shadows in my memory—merely gestured towards the panoramic view. "Lviv," he said, his voice a low, husky purr that scraped against my nerves.  It’s… familiar.  That voice… His face, angular and framed by short, straight black hair with a distinctive widow's peak, was both striking and unsettling. His olive skin was stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, his blue eyes, set deep within monolid lids, held a cold, calculating glint that belied the thin lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk. One corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other, creating an almost predatory asymmetry. The faintest scent of sandalwood and something else, something sharp and metallic, clung to him. Despite a soft jawline, his overall impression was one of predatory grace, a coiled viper in expensive clothes. He poured me brandy, strong and fiery, the crystal glass cold against my trembling fingers. The clink echoed in the vast space, a mocking chime.  He’s… watching me.  Studying me.

His eyes, those unnervingly blue eyes, held a glint of something akin to amusement, a cruel, calculating amusement that sent a fresh wave of fear through me. It was in the subtle tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible lift of one eyebrow, the way his smirk stretched just a fraction wider as I spoke. It was a silent commentary, a nonverbal mockery of my fear and vulnerability. But there’s something else… a flicker of something… regret?  No…

I took a sip, the fiery liquid burning a path down my throat, a poor substitute for the peace I usually found in prayer. "Why… why am I here? And why am I… like this? And… you. You were the man in the market, weren't you? The one who kept staring." My voice, a mere tremor, was swallowed by the oppressive silence. His eyes, however, never left mine, holding mine captive in their cold, calculating gaze. His height may be around 6 ft, it was imposing, his slender, lean physique accentuated by his ramrod-straight posture. His grunge aesthetic clothing, with glimpses of tattoos peeking from beneath his sleeves, and a single piercing in his left ear only added to the unsettling aura. Barely visible scars traced the line of his eyebrows, hinting at a violent past. He’s dangerous… but there’s a strange familiarity…

He turned, his gaze lingering a beat too long on my exposed shoulders, a slow, deliberate appraisal that sent a shiver down my spine. His expression didn't change, but the intensity of his gaze intensified, becoming almost palpable. "They were after you, Kukolka." The pet name, a cruel caress, felt like a further degradation, a mockery of my faith and my values. The slight twitch of his lips, barely perceptible, only served to amplify the mocking undercurrent of his words. Kukolka… that word… it feels… wrong.

"Who? Who are 'they'? Putang Ina naman sagutin mo naman ako ng maayos at bakit naman tinatawag mo akong Kukolka!" My voice rose slightly, fueled by panic and a growing sense of unease. He was the man in the market, I was certain of it.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second.  He’s… conflicted.  There’s something in his eyes…  He didn't answer directly, his silence a deliberate cruelty.  His expression remained unchanged—that same cold, calculating amusement. He gestured to the discarded red dress. "Those sequins weren't sequins. They were cameras. Tiny, sophisticated surveillance devices." His words were laced with a chilling amusement, a subtle curl of his lip emphasizing the mockery.  Cameras?  That’s… insane.

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. "Cameras? I didn't… I didn't even notice."

"They were watching you, Kukolka. Tracking your every move. I had to intervene. I had to get rid of the dress." His explanation was a flimsy excuse, a transparent attempt to justify his actions.  But… why me?  Why this? He looked at me again, that same unsettling look, and I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The vastness of the room, the high ceilings, the sheer scale of the penthouse, all served to emphasize my isolation, my vulnerability. The opulence was a cruel joke, a mockery of the sanctuary I sought.

"Intervene? You… you kidnapped me? And left me… like this? Why? Bakit?" My voice was sharp now, demanding answers. The fear was still there, but it was mixing with a cold, righteous anger.  I won’t let him intimidate me.

He didn't deny it. "They were going to hurt you. I couldn't let that happen." His voice was low, a purr that held a hint of something dangerous, but also… something else.  A hint of something akin to… desperation?

"But who? Who wants to hurt me?!" My voice rose, the fear giving way to a desperate need for answers. My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence.

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, cold. Then, quietly, "You were marked, Kukolka. Marked for… something." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken menace.  Marked?  What does that even mean?

"Marked? What does that even mean? Ano ba sabihin mo nalang kasi eh…" I pulled the sheet tighter, desperate for some semblance of dignity. His eyes followed the movement, a silent, predatory observation. The polished marble floor seemed to reflect my fear, amplifying it.  I need to get out of here.

He looked at a framed picture of a peaceful abbey, bathed in golden sunlight, the irony thick and suffocating. "This penthouse," he said, his voice softer, laced with a cruel amusement, "is your abbey, for now. A temporary sanctuary."

"Sanctuary?" I echoed, my voice filled with bitter sarcasm. "From what? And how am I supposed to feel safe…" My voice broke, the question a raw cry in the echoing silence. His gaze lingered on me, that unsettling look, and a primal fear, amplified by the opulent isolation, threatened to overwhelm me.  But… why does he look so… tormented?

He didn't answer directly. He simply looked at me, his eyes a strange mix of determination and something else… something that resembled a chilling amusement, a cruel satisfaction. "For now, Kukolka," he said, "you're safe." But the words were hollow, a cruel mockery of the truth. The luxury was a cold comfort, a gilded cage in a strange city, surrounded by a mystery I couldn't comprehend, and acutely aware of my own vulnerability under his unnerving gaze in this vast, isolating penthouse, desperate for answers about my own precarious situation. The mockery of my faith, the violation of my sense of sanctuary, fueled a cold fire of anger within me.  But… who is he?

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