Varni

t w e n t y-t h r e e

I sat on the cold concrete floor, my back pressed against the damp, rough wall of the dimly lit room. The only light came from a single, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced around me, taunting my solitude.

Bastard. That was the only name I had for him. The man in the mask who haunted my days and nights. He never spoke his name, never revealed his face. His fists and feet did the talking, and they spoke volumes.

It was always the same. He'd come every other day, a looming figure cloaked in menace. His eyes, the only visible part of him, were cold and empty, like twin voids that sucked in all hope. The beatings were methodical, almost clinical. He never lost control, never gave in to rage. Every blow was precise, calculated to inflict maximum pain without causing permanent damage. He wanted me broken, not dead.

I heard the creak of the door and instinctively curled into a tighter ball. Footsteps echoed in the small space, growing louder with each step. He was here. Bastard.

"Look at me," he commanded in that grating, low voice. I didn't move. I couldn't. The fear had me paralyzed.

"Look at me!" His voice was more insistent, laced with a threat that made my skin crawl. Slowly, I lifted my head, meeting those soulless eyes.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. I shook my head, a small, defiant motion. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of words. I couldn't speak, not to him, not to anyone. Not since...

He straightened up, letting out a low, humorless laugh. "Of course you don't. You don't know anything. But you will. Soon enough."

He began his ritual, raining blows on me with an almost rhythmic precision. Pain exploded in my side, my vision blurred, and I tasted blood. Through the haze, I heard his voice, a steady drone of words that mingled with the agony.

"You think you're special? You think silence makes you strong? It's pathetic. You are nothing but a pawn in a game you can't even begin to understand. You are in the hands of the Russian mafia, little girl. Do you understand that?"

Russian mafia. The words cut through the fog of pain, striking a chord of terror deep within me. I had heard of their ruthlessness, their absolute control over everything they touched. And now, I was in their grasp.

"We own you," he continued, his voice relentless. "We can do whatever we want with you. No one is coming to save you. No one cares."

Another blow. Another flash of pain. But his words kept coming, a torrent of information I didn't want but couldn't escape.

"We are everywhere. Our power stretches beyond borders, beyond laws. You think your silence protects you? It doesn't. It only makes you weaker."

He stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion. I lay there, a broken doll on the cold floor, every nerve screaming in protest. I wanted to close my eyes, to shut out his voice, but I couldn't. His words were like poison, seeping into my mind, mixing with the pain until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"We will break you," he whispered, crouching down beside me. "We will make you talk. And then, we will decide what to do with you. Maybe we'll let you live. Maybe we'll kill you. It all depends on how useful you are."

He stood up, towering over me, a dark, imposing figure against the dim light. "Remember this, Yawa. You are nothing. You belong to us."

With that, he turned and walked away, the door closing behind him with a final, resounding click. I lay there, my body a throbbing mass of pain, my mind reeling from the revelation.