Dishonor From Nightmares

Chapter 5

Rudolf's consciousness returned with a throbbing headache, his eyes squinting against the harshness of the light. Blinking away the disorientation, he took in his surroundings. He found himself confined within a small space, its dimensions dominated by a single locked door. The absence of a bathroom was evident, and the air bore the acrid scent of smoke, a stark reminder of past events. Light strangely played upon a wall section, creating an eerie reflection. The floor yielded a soft crunch beneath his feet, and the paper lining the walls and ceiling was charred and curling, evidence of a fire ravaging the building. Nearby was also a white spray mark in contrast to the black stains, symbolizing a white stick figure sitting down with a bowed head.

A knock at the door jolted Rudolf's heart into a rapid rhythm. Frantically scanning his surroundings, he sought to reach the nightstand or the lamp to respond to the visitor. But his body betrayed him, seemingly paralyzed as the door swung open. In walked a man noticeably smaller in stature than Rudolf himself. The stranger's gaze flicked to Rudolf's height before he offered a cautious smile, his hand lifting to reveal a silver tray bearing a feast. At the forefront of the tray were Syrniki, golden-brown pancakes that boasted a slightly crisp exterior, concealing a soft, pillowy interior. Their surfaces were adorned with a delicate latticework of griddle marks, hinting at their freshly cooked origin.

Generously dusted with powdered sugar, resembling a light dusting of snow on a winter morning. The subtle sweetness was a precursor to the creamy, velvety richness that awaited within, a blend of cottage cheese and eggs. Nestled alongside the Syrniki was a container of Prostokvasha, a cultured milk product with a tangy aroma. The Prostokvasha's ivory hue was punctuated by a delicate swirl of cream on its surface. A bowl of Okroshka sat nearby, a refreshing soup that celebrated the vibrancy of summer ingredients. Within the bowl, a medley of colorful vegetables—crisp cucumbers, vibrant radishes, and earthy potatoes—was suspended in a creamy base. The sight of dill leaves and scallion rings floating on the surface hinted at the soup's herbaceous undertones. Pyshki was lined up on a small plate. Their golden-brown exteriors gleamed with a hint of honeyed glaze. Each Pyshki was slightly puffy, bearing the marks of a skilled hand that had shaped and fried them to perfection.

Beside the plate of Pyshki lay slices of black bread, their deep brown hues hinting at the rich flavors within. The bread's crumb was firm yet tender, and its aroma evoked memories of hearty meals shared around family tables. It was a companion to savor, perfect for scooping up the last remnants of the Okroshka's creamy goodness.

Completing the ensemble was Zrazy, savory meat patties that showcased a mosaic of colors and textures. The thin slices of meat had been lovingly filled with fresh ingredients. Their surfaces bore a delicate char from a skillful searing.

"Please, remain calm. I have no intentions of harming you," the man's voice carried a reassuring whisper. The young man with a slightly disheveled appearance reflects the motel's worn-down state. He had messy brown hair and wore the hotel's uniform: a white shirt and black pants. His overall appearance is unassuming and somewhat ordinary.

With an almost bashful air, he continued, "I've heard you're from Russia. I've managed to prepare some decent meals over time, and, well..."

Before he could finish, Rudolf lunged forward, seizing the man by his collar, and slammed him against the wall, his narrowed eyes exuding suspicion. "Где я? Ктo ты и где этот ублюдок в маске?"

"Легко, ты должен сначала поесть. Скоро за тобой будут охотиться. Я не участвую в их играх. Ваше оружие находится в главной комнате. Пожалуйста, не делай мне больно"

The man quickly responded, making Rudolf stiffen up with a growl. With a sudden movement, he seized the tray and hurled it at the wall beside the man named Miles, the sound of shattering porcelain punctuating his frustration. Without another word, he turned and stormed outside.