Archive of Our Own

Shane Hollander was already late.

That alone should have been enough to set him on edge—late for a lecture he’d promised himself he wouldn’t skip again—but campus hummed with its usual late-morning chaos, and Shane blended into it easily. Headphones in, backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee cooling in his hand. To anyone watching, he was just another student cutting across the quad.

He didn’t notice the man at first.

The guy fell into step beside him so smoothly Shane assumed he was just another student heading the same way. Taller than most, broad shoulders under a dark coat that felt out of place among hoodies and backpacks. Shane sensed him before he really looked—that prickle between the shoulders, the awareness of being watched.

“You always walk this fast,” the man said casually, accented but fluent, “or only when you are running from something?”

Shane pulled his head phones down. “What?”

The man smiled. Not friendly. Assessing. His eyes were pale, sharp, amused in a way that made Shane’s spine itch.

“I said,” the stranger repeated, “you look like you are running from something.”

Shane frowned. “Do I know you?”

“No.” The man glanced ahead, hands in his pockets like this was the most normal conversation in the world. “But I know you.”

That earned him a sideways look. Shane slowed a fraction, irritation flaring. “Okay, that’s weird.”

“Is it?” The man chuckled softly. “You are Shane Hollander. Business major. Second floor apartment off 8th. Bad habit of skipping breakfast.”

Shane stopped walking.

The stranger did too.

He took two more steps before pausing, turning back with an expression of mild curiosity, like he’d expected Shane to catch up by now.

Shane’s pulse thudded hard. “Who the hell are you?”

The man studied him openly now. “You can call me Ilya.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is enough of one.” Ilya’s gaze flicked to the path ahead, then to the side—toward the parking structures beyond the trees. “Come. You will miss class.”

Shane snorted despite himself. “I don’t take attendance advice from random creeps.”

He turned away, heart racing now, and took three quick steps toward the academic building he had just left.

A heavy arm slid around his shoulders.

Not rough. Not yet. Firm. Possessive.

“Easy,” Ilya murmured, close now, breath warm near Shane’s ear. “No scene.”

Shane froze. His coffee slipped from his fingers and splashed across the pavement.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “Get off me.”

“Relax.” Ilya steered him gently but unmistakably off the main path. “We are just taking a short walk.”

Panic sparked. Shane tried to twist free—and nearly collided with a second man who appeared at his other side like he’d been there all along. This one didn’t bother pretending. Thick neck. Flat stare. One hand disappeared into his jacket.

“You shout,” the man said quietly, “or you run, and this gets very ugly very fast.”

Shane’s mouth went dry.

Students passed just yards away. Laughter. A bike bell. Normal life sliding past while his world narrowed to the pressure at his shoulders and the cold certainty in the men flanking him.

They guided him toward the parking lot.

“No,” Shane whispered. “I—I have class.”

Ilya laughed softly. “Yes. You keep saying this.”

The van was parked near the back, nondescript and unremarkable in the way that suddenly felt terrifying. Shane dug his heels in as they reached it, dread crashing over him in a wave.

“I’m not getting in,” he said, voice shaking now. “You can’t—”

Ilya’s hand slipped from his shoulder, and for half a second Shane thought he might have a chance.

Then Ilya lifted his coat.

The gun was compact, black, steady in his grip. He didn’t wave it. He didn’t need to.

Everything inside Shane went cold.

“Get in the van,” Ilya said calmly. “Now.”

The side door slid open.

Hands shoved Shane forward, hard this time, and he stumbled inside, the metal floor biting into his knees as the door slammed shut behind him. The sound echoed like a final punctuation mark.

Ilya climbed in after him, closing the distance with infuriating ease, the gun still visible, still real.

As the van lurched into motion, Shane realized—with sickening clarity—that his life had just been altered irrevocably.

And this was only the beginning.

The van hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot before the panic hit.

Shane’s breath came too fast, too shallow, his chest locking up like it was braced for impact. The walls felt too close, the air stale and thick with oil and rubber. His backpack was still on—stupid—the straps biting into his shoulders as the vehicle jolted forward.

“No—no, no—” He twisted toward the door, hands scrambling for the handle. “Hey! Let me out! You can’t—”

He yelled.

The sound ripped out of him, sharp and desperate, echoing off the metal walls.

“HEY—HELP—”

Ilya moved instantly.

One second he was seated across from him, relaxed, almost bored. The next, he was there—too close, too fast—one hand fisting into the front of Shane’s hoodie, yanking him back hard, the other clamping over his mouth.

“Shut up,” Ilya hissed, low and urgent.

Shane bucked violently, panic fully detonating now. He thrashed against Ilya’s grip, muffled shouts punching uselessly into his palm. His heart hammered so hard it hurt, spots flashing at the edges of his vision.

The van swerved slightly.

“Jesus Christ,” the driver snapped from the front. “You want campus security on us?”

“I have him,” Ilya snapped back in Russian, hauling Shane tight against his chest.

Shane’s back hit Ilya’s torso, solid and unyielding. Ilya’s arm locked around him, pinning his shoulders, his hand still firm over Shane’s mouth. Shane could feel the man’s breath at his ear, controlled and steady in brutal contrast to his own.

“Listen to me,” Ilya said, voice rough but measured. “You scream again, and this becomes much worse for you. Do you understand?”

Shane shook his head frantically, tears stinging his eyes. His fingers clawed at Ilya’s wrist, nails scraping skin, but it was useless. He might as well have been fighting a wall.

Ilya tightened his grip just enough to make the point.

“Hey,” he said sharply, then softened—just a fraction. “Hey. Look at me.”

Shane couldn’t, not really, but his attention snagged anyway, dragged in by the sudden change in tone.

“You are not being hurt,” Ilya said quietly. “You are breathing. Yes? In. Out.”

Shane sucked in a ragged breath through his nose. Another followed, shaky and broken.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmured, almost coaxing now. “Good. Again.”

The van rolled on, tires humming over asphalt, no sirens, no shouts from outside. Campus life continued on without him.

Ilya slowly loosened his hold—not releasing him, but easing enough that Shane could move a little. His hand stayed over Shane’s mouth, warm and inescapable.

“You calm down,” Ilya said close to his ear, voice steady and dangerous all at once, “and we get where we are going without trouble. You fight me again, and I promise you will regret it.”

Shane’s chest heaved. His body trembled, adrenaline burning hot under his skin, but the uselessness of struggling was sinking in now.

Ilya waited.

When Shane finally stilled, even just a little, Ilya exhaled.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Smart choice.”

The van turned, picking up speed.

And Shane, trapped in Ilya’s arms with a stranger’s hand over his mouth, realized screaming hadn’t saved him at all.

Ilya didn’t let go.

If anything, his hold tightened once Shane went quiet—an arm locked across Shane’s chest, forearm braced hard, anchoring him in place like a seatbelt made of muscle. Shane’s back was still pressed to him, trapped between Ilya and the van’s metal wall, every jolt of the road knocking the breath from his lungs.

Shane tried again anyway.

A small, broken sound slipped out of him, more whimper than shout, his body tensing as he twisted against the arm pinning him. “Mm—please—” The words came out muffled, crushed under Ilya’s palm when he tried to speak louder. “I won’t—I swear—”

He squirmed, shoulders jerking, elbows digging uselessly for leverage. Panic surged again when nothing gave. Ilya didn’t even grunt. He absorbed the movement like it was expected, like he’d already calculated exactly how much Shane could fight.

“Stop,” Ilya said flatly, not raising his voice. “You are wasting energy.”

Shane shook his head, breath stuttering. He tried to pull Ilya’s hand away, fingers slipping over callused skin. “I—I can’t—please—”

“Enough.” Ilya shifted his grip, tightening just enough that Shane’s breath hitched, fear spiking instantly. “I told you. You calm down, or this becomes unpleasant.”

Shane froze, terror making him obedient where threats hadn’t.

The van rumbled beneath them, steady now, moving faster. Every second stretched, endless and unbearable. Shane swallowed hard, tears slipping down his cheeks despite his effort to stop them. He tried again, quieter this time, voice shaking under Ilya’s hand.

Shane tried to keep talking, mumbled noises escaping from beneath the large hand muzzling the bottom half of his face. 

Ilya leaned in closer, his mouth near Shane’s ear, his tone maddeningly calm. “You are safer if you stop talking now.”

Shane let out a soft, broken sound, shoulders curling inward. He stopped fighting—not because he trusted Ilya, not because he believed him—but because his body was shaking too badly to keep going.

Ilya noticed.

He always did.

“Good,” he said, without warmth, without praise. Just a statement of fact. His hand stayed firmly over Shane’s mouth. His arm stayed locked around him. No trust given. None earned.

Shane stared at the darkened window of the van, heart pounding, helpless in a way he had never been before.

And Ilya held him there, unyielding, waiting out every tremor, every shaky breath—perfectly content to keep him trapped for as long as it took.

The van merged onto the highway.

Shane noticed the change immediately—the steadier speed, the long stretch of road instead of turns and stops. His breathing picked up again, shallow and fast, chest tight under Ilya’s arm.

From the front seat, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “We’re cutting it close,” Marley muttered in a heavy Russian accent. “Traffic’s lighter than I expected.”

“Good,” Ilya said. “The airport waits for no one.”

Airport.

The word hit Shane like a physical blow.

“No—” he choked, the sound muffled under Ilya’s hand as the realization slammed into place. A plane meant distance. Borders. Disappearing. He thrashed again, panic exploding fresh and wild. His legs kicked uselessly against the floor, shoulders jerking hard enough to rock them both.

“Mmm—no, please—can’t—” His voice cracked completely this time.

Ilya swore under his breath and hauled him in tighter, forearm locking across Shane’s chest, hand firm over his mouth again. “Enough,” he snapped, then lowered his voice, close and dangerous. “You want to be heard?”

Shane shook his head violently, tears spilling freely now, terror making him reckless. His chest heaved against Ilya’s arm.

Marley glanced back again, jaw tight. “He knows,” he said. “This is going to be a problem. Airports aren’t forgiving places, Ilya.”

“I am aware.”

“How exactly do you plan to walk a panicking college kid onto a plane without drawing attention?” Marley pressed. “Because duct tape and a struggle aren’t subtle.”

Ilya didn’t answer right away. He adjusted his grip, not loosening it, but shifting just enough to force Shane to face forward instead of fighting sideways. His hand slid from Shane’s mouth to his jaw, thumb pressing lightly but unmistakably at the hinge.

“Listen,” Ilya said quietly. “You are spiraling.”

Shane’s breath hitched at the change, eyes wide, unfocused.

“You scream again,” Ilya continued, calm as ice, “and you make everything worse for yourself. You cooperate, and this stays simple.”

Shane shook, lips trembling. “I—I can’t—I don’t—”

“You can,” Ilya interrupted, voice low and absolute. “And you will.”

He leaned closer, words meant for Shane alone. “You get on that plane quietly, or you do not like how I make this work. Understand?”

Shane nodded frantically, fear overriding everything else.

Ilya released his jaw but kept the rest of his hold firm, satisfied when Shane went limp against him again, breath still shaky but contained.

Marley frowned. “You’re awfully confident.”

“I am realistic,” Ilya replied. He glanced down at Shane, who flinched under his gaze. “He is smart enough to know when obedience keeps him breathing comfortably.”

Shane swallowed hard, body trembling, eyes fixed on the van floor.

“He will be a good boy,” Ilya said calmly, almost casually. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

The van sped toward the airport.

And Shane, trapped in the space between Ilya’s arm and the future he was being dragged toward, realized with sick certainty that this wasn’t just an abduction anymore.

It was a removal.

The van rolled into the short-term parking garage and slowed.

Shane felt it immediately—the change in sound, the echo of concrete, the finality of it. His body went rigid under Ilya’s arm as the engine cut.

“No,” he whispered, hoarse. “No, no—please—”

The side door slid open.

Marley climbed out of the driver’s seat and came around to the back, expression tight, eyes already scanning for cameras and passersby. He slid inside and shut the door again, sealing Shane in with them.

“Five minutes,” Marley said. “Security’s heavier today.”

Shane barely had time to suck in a breath before hands were on him again—rough, efficient, practiced. Marley, blocking the doors with his body while Ilya crowded Shane from the other side, filling the narrow space until there was nowhere left to retreat.

“Bag,” Marley said.

Shane shook his head instinctively, clutching the straps of his backpack to his chest. “Please—there’s just my—”

Marley didn’t let him finish.

He grabbed one strap and yanked. Shane cried out as the backpack tore free, the force dragging him forward before Ilya shoved him back against the van wall. The bag hit the floor between Marley’s boots. Marley unzipped it and dumped the contents out without looking—textbooks, a notebook, a half-empty water bottle, pens scattering and rolling under the seats.

Marley pulled out Shane’s laptop next. He glanced at it once, then tossed it aside like it was trash.

“Phone,” Ilya said calmly.

Shane’s heart dropped. “I—I don’t—”

Ilya’s hand slid into Shane’s jacket pocket anyway. He found the phone immediately and held it up just long enough for Shane to see it before passing it to Marley. Marley popped the back off, ripped out the SIM card, and snapped it cleanly in half.

Shane made a small, broken sound in his throat.

“Headphones too,” Marley added.

Ilya tugged them down around Shane’s neck and dropped them onto the pile on the floor. He patted Shane down next—methodical, invasive. Jacket pockets. Jeans. Hoodie pouch. Fingers pressing hard enough to bruise as he searched for anything Shane might hide.

Keys. Wallet. Student ID.

Ilya flipped the ID over, reading it once before slipping it into his pocket.

“You won’t need this,” he said.

Shane was shaking now, breaths coming too fast, too shallow. “Please,” he whispered. “I won’t call anyone. I swear.”

Marley swept everything—the bag, the phone pieces, the headphones—into a plastic tote under the seat and slammed it shut.

“There,” Marley said. 

Shane’s hands curled into his sleeves, empty. Stripped. Untethered.

Ilya’s arm slid around his shoulders, pulling him close—not gently, but firmly enough that Shane couldn’t pull away. Fingers pressed into his jaw, turning his face slightly.

“Breathe,” Ilya murmured, voice low. “You panic, you make things harder for yourself.”

Shane tried. He really did.

That was when Ilya reached into his pocket.

Shane saw the pill before he understood what it was. Small. White. Innocent-looking in a way that made his stomach drop.

“No,” Shane said immediately, shaking his head hard. “I’m not—no, I won’t take that—”

“It is to help you stay calm,” Ilya said evenly.

“I don’t know what it is,” Shane choked. “You can’t—please—I’ll be quiet, I swear—”

The panic surged out of control. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to pull away, body curling inward, heels scraping against the van floor. “Please, please don’t—”

“Hold him,” Ilya said, already done talking.

Marley moved in without hesitation. He grabbed Shane’s arms, pinning them to his sides, bracing his weight against him. Shane cried out, thrashing wildly now, terror burning through him.

“Stop—stop—please—!”

Ilya caught Shane’s jaw in one hand and forced his head back. “Open your mouth.”

Shane clamped it shut, sobbing, shaking his head.

Ilya’s patience ran out.

He pried Shane’s mouth open with practiced force, fingers relentless despite Shane’s frantic resistance. Shane screamed once before Ilya shoved the pill in, far enough back that his tongue couldn’t push it out.

“Close his mouth,” Ilya said.

Marley obeyed, clamping a hand over Shane’s mouth and nose at once, holding him still as Shane bucked violently, panic exploding into pure survival instinct. His chest heaved uselessly, lungs burning.

“Swallow,” Ilya said calmly, watching him struggle. “Now.”

Shane shook his head desperately, tears soaking into Marley’s sleeve, but the pressure didn’t let up. His body betrayed him—one involuntary gulp, then another.

Ilya released him immediately.

Marley let go a second later, shoving a thick finger into Shane’s mouth so that Ilya could peer in. The pill was gone. 

Marley removed his finger and dropped Shane’s arms at Ilya’s nod of confirmation, stepping back as Shane collapsed forward, coughing, gasping, drawing air in sharp, broken sobs. His whole body trembled, shoulders hitching as he tried to breathe normally again.

“There,” Ilya said, tucking the empty packet away. “That is done.”

Marley exhaled slowly. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You sure that was necessary?”

“Yes,” Ilya replied, watching Shane closely as he cried into his knees. “He was going to make a scene.”

Shane could barely hear them now. His head felt light, the sharp edges of his panic already starting to blur, fear still there but sinking, heavy and dull.

Ilya crouched in front of him, catching his chin briefly, forcing him to look up.

“You did this the hard way,” he said quietly. “Next time, you cooperate.”

Shane nodded weakly, tears still falling, too exhausted—and too scared—to do anything else.

“Good,” Ilya said. 

They don’t move right away.

The van sits there, engine ticking softly as it cools, concrete humming around them. Shane is slumped where they left him, knees pulled in, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to keep the pieces together. His vision swims—edges blurring, sounds stretching and snapping back into place. His heart is still racing, but distant now, like it belongs to someone else.

Ilya crouches in front of him again.

“Look at me,” he says.

Shane blinks, slow and unfocused. It takes a second—too long—before his eyes lift. When they do, Ilya’s expression isn’t angry. It’s worse than that. Calm. Certain.

Ilya reaches out and wipes Shane’s face with his thumb, brushing away tears with almost gentle precision. The tenderness makes Shane flinch harder than the roughness ever did.

“This,” Ilya says quietly, “is why obedience matters.”

Shane’s throat tightens. He nods without realizing he’s doing it.

“You scream,” Ilya continues, voice low and even, “You run, You tell anyone who I am, what I want, or why you are here—” He leans in, close enough that Shane can smell his cologne, sharp and expensive. “—and it won’t just be you who gets hurt. your friends disappear first.”

Shane’s breath stutters.

“Your roommate,” Ilya adds casually. “Your classmates. Your professors. Anyone who looks at you twice. And then your family.”

Shane shakes his head weakly, a broken sound tearing out of him. “Please—”

“Shh.” Ilya cups his jaw, not rough, but unyielding. “This is not a threat. This is a lesson.”

Marley watches from the side, arms crossed, jaw tight but silent.

Ilya straightens. “You are disoriented,” he says, almost clinically. “Between fear, lack of air, and what you swallowed, this is normal. It will pass. What will not pass are the consequences if you disobey me.”

Shane nods again. He feels like he’s underwater, thoughts sluggish, limbs heavy. Fighting feels impossible—like trying to punch through wet cement.

“Good,” Ilya says. “Rules.”

He holds up one finger.

“Head down. You do not look around like a lost child.”

Another finger.

“You do not speak. Not to staff. Not to security. Not to strangers who smile at you because they think you are harmless.”

A third.

“You do not let go of my hand. For any reason.”

Ilya takes Shane’s hand then, threading their fingers together firmly, grip iron-tight. Shane’s stomach twists, but he doesn’t pull away. He can’t summon the will.

“If you break a rule,” Ilya finishes softly, “I will remind you why you shouldn’t.”

Shane swallows hard. His head throbs. His limbs feel distant, like they belong to someone else. All he can focus on is the pressure of Ilya’s hand and the certainty in his voice.

“Do you understand?” Ilya asks.

“Yes,” Shane whispers automatically.

Ilya nods, satisfied. He gives Shane one last appraising look, then squeezes his hand once—not reassuring. Possessive.

“Good boy,” he says, and opens the van door.

The light floods in.

And Shane, terrified and shaking and too broken to resist, lets himself be pulled out of the garage and toward the terminal—head down, silent, obedient.

Shane does exactly what he’s told.

Head down. Eyes unfocused. One hand locked in Ilya’s, fingers aching where the grip never quite loosens. His thoughts feel slow, syrupy, like he’s wading through fog. The airport is too bright, too loud—rolling suitcases, overlapping voices, the sharp crackle of announcements—but it all feels distant, unreal.

At security, Ilya shifts seamlessly.

He slides an arm around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him close, smiling wide at the TSA agent. Warm. Charming. Harmless.

“Sorry,” Ilya says easily, guiding Shane forward when he hesitates. “He’s not great with airports. Or flying. Or crowds.” A soft laugh. “Severe phobia.”

Shane flinches on cue, shoulders curling inward.

“It’s okay,” the agent says kindly. “You’re doing great.”

Shane nods mutely, throat tight. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to hand a note to anyone or let his gaze linger too long.

He understands exactly what would happen if he did.

Ilya murmurs reassurance in his ear the whole time—gentle words, steady pressure at his back—until they’re through the scanners and past the last point where help might have mattered.

The moment they clear security, everything changes.

Marley claps his hands once, bright and energetic. “Alright! Plenty of time. I’m starving.”

Ilya laughs, the sound easy and genuine, like none of what came before ever happened. “You always are.”

Ilya keeps a hold of Shane’s hand, but the grip doesn’t feel quite so suffocating anymore. Marley, flanking him casually now instead of corralling him. To anyone watching, they look like friends traveling together—two men chatting animatedly, one clearly fussing over a nervous partner.

Shane can’t keep up with the shift.

His body stays tense, waiting for the next grab, the next threat. His heart doesn’t slow just because their smiles are real now. He trails half a step behind, disoriented, dizzy, fingers twitching where Ilya’s hand used to be.

They buy food.

Too much of it. Coffee, sandwiches, snacks Shane doesn’t remember liking but ends up clutching anyway because Ilya puts them in his hands and tells him to hold on. The normalcy is almost worse than the violence—this strange performance of care layered over terror.

They sit near the gate.

Shane perches stiffly in his seat, knees drawn in, staring at the floor. Ilya sits close, close enough that Shane can feel the warmth of his thigh against his own. Marley sprawls on the other side, joking about delays, tapping on his phone.

Ilya unwraps Shane’s sandwich.

“Eat,” he says quietly.

Shane hesitates, then obeys. His hands shake too badly to manage it himself. Ilya notices immediately.

“Here,” he murmurs.

He feeds him small bites, unhurried, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Shane chews mechanically, swallowing because he’s told to, because not doing so feels unthinkable.

“Good,” Ilya says after a few bites. “That’s it.”

Shane’s cheeks burn, humiliation mixing with relief. He doesn’t look up.

“You’ve been very well-behaved,” Ilya continues, voice low, meant only for him. “Quiet. Cooperative. Exactly what I asked.”

Shane nods faintly.

“I like that,” Ilya adds. “When you follow directions, everything goes smoothly.”

He presses a napkin into Shane’s hand, guiding it to his mouth. “Clean up.”

Shane does.

Ilya smiles—not the cold one from the van, but something softer, approving. “See? This is easy. You behave, and you are taken care of.”

Marley glances over, grinning. “Told you he’d settle.”

Ilya hums in agreement, giving Shane’s knee a light, possessive squeeze. “He’s learning.”

Shane stares at the floor, heart pounding, fear sitting heavy in his stomach—but threaded through it now is something worse.

The knowledge that he’s doing exactly what they want.

And that they’re pleased with him for it.

Priority boarding is called.

Shane feels it like a countdown hitting zero.

Ilya is on his feet immediately, fingers closing around Shane’s hand with bruising certainty. The grip is tight—too tight to be comforting, too deliberate to be accidental. Shane hesitates just long enough for it to be noticeable, feet dragging as the line starts to move.

Behind him, Marley steps close.

Not touching. Not pushing.

Just there.

Solid. Unavoidable.

Shane swallows hard. His chest feels hollow, breath shallow and uneven, but he doesn’t pull away. He knows better now. He lets Ilya lead him forward, every step toward the jet bridge feeling heavier than the last.

This is it.
Once he steps on, there’s no pretending this is temporary anymore.

The plane yawns open in front of them.

Ilya’s thumb presses into the side of Shane’s hand, grounding, possessive. Move.

Shane does.

They board early, greeted with polite smiles and quiet hellos. Ilya nods easily, charming as ever, guiding Shane down the aisle like he belongs there. Marley follows a step behind, blocking Shane’s retreat without ever needing to say a word.

First class.

The very front.

Shane sinks into his seat as if his legs give out all at once. The space feels wrong—too open, too exposed. Ilya sits directly beside him, close enough that their shoulders press together. Marley drops into the seat across the aisle, stretching his legs, relaxed and watchful.

The cabin fills slowly behind them.

Shane’s head swims. The edges of his vision blur. His heart won’t slow down, and the drug still makes everything feel slightly unreal, like he’s watching this happen from a few inches outside his body.

Ilya notices immediately.

He shifts closer, an arm coming around Shane’s shoulders, drawing him in until Shane’s forehead brushes his chest. To anyone watching, it’s intimate. Protective. Reassuring.

“There,” Ilya murmurs. “Easy.”

Shane clutches weakly at the fabric of Ilya’s jacket without thinking, breath hitching as the plane fills with noise—overhead bins slamming, voices overlapping, the low hum of systems powering up.

“I—” Shane whispers, panic rising again. “Where are we—?”

Ilya’s arm tightens.

“Shh,” he says softly, but there’s steel underneath it. His lips brush close to Shane’s ear. “No talking.”

“But I don’t—who are you—” Shane tries again, words tumbling over each other, desperate and thin.

Ilya cuts him off instantly, fingers pressing lightly at Shane’s jaw, not painful—just enough to remind him who’s in control.

“I said no talking,” Ilya murmurs, smile still in place for anyone who might glance their way. “Questions make you upset. And when you get upset, things get difficult.”

Shane goes quiet.

He nods faintly instead, heart pounding, confusion and fear knotting together in his chest. Ilya relaxes a fraction, satisfied, and resumes the gentle, steady pressure of his hold.

“That’s better,” he says quietly. “Stay calm. Stay quiet.”

Marley watches from across the aisle, eyes flicking briefly to Shane before returning to the window. He gives a small, approving nod.

The last passengers board.

The doors close.

And with Ilya’s arm around him and nowhere left to run, Shane stares straight ahead—dizzy, terrified, obedient—while the plane prepares to take him somewhere he doesn’t know, with men he isn’t allowed to ask about, toward a future he already knows he can’t escape.

The noise of the cabin fades into a low, distant hum.

Shane’s breathing evens out without him meaning it to. His head lolls forward, then tips sideways, coming to rest against Ilya’s chest. The tension drains out of his body all at once—shoulders sagging, fingers loosening their grip on Ilya’s jacket as exhaustion finally overtakes fear.

He goes limp.

Ilya feels it immediately.

He adjusts without thinking, arm tightening around Shane’s shoulders, hand settling firm and steady at his side to keep him from slipping. To anyone watching, it looks natural—protective, even affectionate. A boyfriend holding his anxious partner while he sleeps.

Better this way.

Ilya lowers his chin slightly, feeling the slow, warm rhythm of Shane’s breathing against him. Panic makes people unpredictable. Sleep makes them manageable. Shane’s mind, dulled by fear and medication and sheer overload, finally gives up the fight.

Good.

Ilya glances toward the front of the cabin as a flight attendant passes, smiling, murmuring something about pre-departure drinks. He shakes his head politely. “He’s finally calm,” he says softly. “I’d rather not wake him.”

“Of course,” she replies, lowering her voice instinctively.

Across the aisle, Marley watches, expression unreadable. “Out cold,” he murmurs.

“For now,” Ilya replies quietly.

The announcement crackles over the speakers—welcome aboard, flight number, expected duration. Ilya shifts Shane just enough that his ear presses more firmly against his chest, muffling the sound. He doesn’t need Shane waking up to that.

Especially not the destination.

Montreal to Moscow.

A long flight. Long enough for the truth to settle in once Shane hears it. Long enough for fear to spike all over again when he realizes this isn’t just a border crossing—it’s an ocean.

Ilya’s jaw tightens slightly.

He’ll panic when he finds out. Shane is fragile in a way he hadn’t fully appreciated before—too sheltered, too unused to consequences that can’t be talked away. Russia will feel like a death sentence to someone like him.

Ilya smooths a hand once over Shane’s arm, grounding more than gentle.

We’ll deal with it when we get there.

For now, Shane sleeps.

The plane pushes back from the gate. Engines rumble, vibrating through the seat and into Shane’s limp frame. Ilya holds him through it all, steady and unmoving, a constant presence anchoring him in place.

Sleeping is better than screaming.
Sleeping is better than questions.

And if Shane misses the moment he officially leaves everything he’s ever known behind—

Well.

That’s mercy, as far as Ilya is concerned.

Shane wakes to the hum of the engines, his body heavy, head foggy. His eyes flutter open, the cabin is dark, lights dimmed. At first, nothing registers—just warmth pressed against him, steady, calming. Then the memory crashes back all at once.

He jerks upright.

“I—I—” His voice cracks, panic instantly surging, heart hammering like a drum.

Ilya is already there. One hand clamps gently but firmly over Shane’s mouth, the other sliding around his shoulders, holding him tight. “Shh,” he murmurs, voice low and controlled, soothing, almost hypnotic. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Breathe.”

Shane thrashes, trying to speak, to yell, to make it stop—but it’s too late. His mind is spinning, the fog from the earlier pill mostly worn off. He’s awake, alert, and terrified.

Ilya moves fast, efficient. He releases his mouth, hooks Shane’s arm and tugs, guiding him down the aisle with a strength that leaves no room for resistance. Marley stays in his seat to watch as Ilya quietly herds him toward the tiny bathroom at the front of the plane. Although the movements were abrupt, Ilya manages to look calm and comforting as he moves Shane. 

Shane protests, panic making words incoherent, but Ilya doesn’t slow. As soon as the door shuts behind them and the lock clicks, Ilya presses Shane against the wall. His body anchors Shane’s, hand firm over his mouth again to muffle screams.

“You are safe,” Ilya whispers, voice calm but uncompromising. “Breathe with me. In… out… in… out…”

Shane shakes, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps. He’s trembling from head to toe, eyes wide and unseeing. Ilya keeps him pressed close, body steadying him against the small space of the restroom, forcing focus on the rhythm of his own breathing instead of the terror in his head.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs after a few moments. “You’re listening. You’re still with me. That’s right. That’s very good.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out another small white pill. Shane’s eyes snap open in horror.

“No! I don’t—please, don’t—”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. His grip tightens. “Yes,” he says quietly but firmly. “You need this. It will help. You will not panic. You will not scream. You will survive the rest of this trip easier if you take it.”

Shane thrashes for a moment, trying to fight it, but Ilya is faster. He forces Shane’s jaw open and slides the pill to the back of his mouth. A sharp press over Shane’s nose and mouth ensures it is swallowed before Shane can spit it out. His struggles weaken under the combined pressure of Ilya’s arms and the medication already beginning to work.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs once Shane swallows, smoothing a hand over his hair. “That’s exactly what I want. Calm. Safe.”

Shane trembles, leaning weakly against the wall. Ilya steps back slightly, giving him room to use the toilet, wash his face, splash water over trembling hands. “You need a moment,” Ilya says. “Everything else can wait. Breathe. Focus. Let it pass.”

Shane does as he’s told. Fifteen minutes later, he’s as composed as he can manage—dizzy, subdued, but quiet and obedient. They emerge from the bathroom, slipping back into their first-class seats as if nothing had happened. The flight attendant gives a polite nod as they pass—fully in on the cover story.

At the beginning of the flight, Ilya had let her know that his “boyfriend” suffered from a severe phobia of flying and that they might need to share the restroom if a panic attack occurred. She had smiled, nodded, and moved on. No one on the plane would ever question what had just happened, and Shane knew better than to breathe a word of it.

Ilya slides back into the seat beside him, hand brushing Shane’s knee in a possessive, grounding way. “See?” he murmurs. “Everything is fine. You listened. You stayed calm. That is exactly what I want.”

Shane swallows hard, still shaken, but he doesn’t argue. He knows that fighting back is a futile attempt.

Shane doesn’t drift back into sleep this time.

The second pill hums faintly at the edges of his consciousness, dulling the panic but not enough to make him completely numb. His head rests against Ilya’s chest, shoulder pressed tightly to his side, fingers curled loosely into Ilya’s jacket, but his eyes are open now—wide, alert, scanning the cabin in a low, constant tension. Every sound—the click of tray tables, the murmur of passengers, the distant chime of announcements—feels magnified.

He wants to be quiet. He has to be. Ilya’s hand is firm around his wrist, thumb brushing lightly over the back of his hand, keeping him anchored. Shane knows better than to struggle, and yet every instinct in him screams.

The flight attendant appears, cart rolling smoothly down the aisle. Ilya’s smile is easy, charming, the kind that makes a casual observer think this is just another young couple traveling.

“She’ll bring us dinner?” Shane mutters under his breath. His lips barely move.

Ilya shushes him gently, pressing a finger to his lips. “Quiet,” he murmurs. 

The attendant arrives and Ilya orders for Shane—a ginger ale and a simple meal of pasta and chicken. Shane watches them carefully as she leaves, swallowing hard. His stomach twists, anxious in a way the pill can’t fix.

“You’ll eat it,” Ilya says softly, brushing a thumb over Shane’s hand again. “I’ll help.”

Shane takes the drink first, hands shaking. Ilya guides the cup carefully, tilting it to Shane’s lips, steadying his hands as he sips. The liquid is cool, sharp, grounding, and Shane swallows reluctantly, eyes wide, heart still jittery.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs. “Slow. Steady. No one notices. That’s exactly what I want.”

Then comes the meal. Shane stares at it for a long moment, overwhelmed by the bright tray, the smell, the clatter of utensils from surrounding passengers. His hands tremble as he picks up the fork. Ilya leans close, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, guiding the other hand.

“Here,” Ilya whispers, pressing a bite to Shane’s lips. “Open. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Good boy.”

Shane obeys mechanically, choking down small bites. He can feel the pill still dulling his edges, but the anxiety tries to claw back with every bite. Ilya’s hand at his wrist, his steadying weight beside him, keeps him on the edge of control.

“Good,” Ilya praises softly after a few bites. “See? Calm. Quiet. Everything is fine when you listen.”

Shane swallows again, nodding faintly. He doesn’t meet Ilya’s eyes—he can’t. His body wants to shake, but Ilya’s firm presence against him, guiding and holding, keeps the panic at bay.

By the time dinner is finished, Shane feels vaguely full, exhausted, and hyper-aware all at once. He stays pressed against Ilya, not daring to move too much, knowing the weight of the other man’s hand and arm is the only thing keeping him from slipping into chaos.

And Ilya, watching him carefully, notes the small victory. Shane is obedient, fed, quiet, and for now, manageable.

Shane drifts in and out of sleep as Ilya methodically eats his dinner beside him. His head rests against Ilya’s chest, arm pressed across him, and for a while, the steady hum of the plane lulls him.

Then the captain’s voice cuts through the cabin. Clear. Crisp. Over the speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing in Moscow at approximately 3 a.m. local time.”

Shane startles awake. His eyes fly open. “M-Moscow?!” His voice cracks before he even realizes he’s spoken. Panic flares instantly, sharper and hotter than anything the drugs can hold down.

Ilya’s hands are full of his own food. He freezes mid-bite, already anticipating Shane’s reaction.

“Not yet,” Ilya murmurs, calm but firm.

Before Shane can shout or lunge, Marley steps in. Quick. Efficient. His hands grab Shane’s arms, rough callouses scraping against his biceps as he drags him toward the tiny bathroom at the front of the plane.

“W-what—hey! Let me go!” Shane squeals in a quiet voice, trying to fight, but Marley’s grip is iron. His hands are unfamiliar, harsh, scary. Shane flails, whimpering, eyes wide, trying to look back at Ilya—but Ilya can’t come yet.

The bathroom door shuts with a definitive click. Marley presses Shane against the wall, hand over his mouth before he can scream, pinning him against the small stall.

“Shh,” Marley says, voice low but clipped. “Breathe. Relax.”

Shane shakes, body trembling, panic building. He’s already gotten used to Ilya—the calm, controlled pressure, the soft coaxing that could soothe him even as it dominated—but Marley is new. Unfamiliar. Rough. No warmth, only control. His calloused hands scrape Shane’s cheeks as he tries to steady him, and Shane can’t focus, can’t calm down.

A knock comes at the door. Ilya’s calm voice carries through. “Let me in. Now.”

Marley steps aside as the door opens, and Shane’s heart leaps at the sight of Ilya’s familiar face. Relief and fear collide in a rush of emotion as Ilya slips in, taking over immediately. Marley steps back, nods once to Shane, then returns to his seat.

Ilya’s hand brushes Shane’s hair, tilting his head gently against his chest. “Easy,” he murmurs. “We’ll get through this. You’ll be okay.”

Shane’s trembling lessens slightly, though panic still pulses under his skin. His sobs slow, broken into shallow breaths.

“Okay,” Ilya says quietly. “We’ll try something new. I’ll answer your questions—just a little. Focus on me.”

Shane clings to the thread of familiarity. “Who… who are you? What… what do you want? Are you going to hurt me?”

Ilya leans closer, voice low, soothing. “I’m Ilya,” he says. “The other guy is Marley. You’ve met him, he’s just helping.” He glances down at Shane’s trembling hands. “We’re here because of your grandfather. He’s made some… very serious mistakes. You don’t need to worry about them. You just need to stay with us for a while.”

Shane swallows shakily. “W-what… what if you hurt me?”

“Not if you behave,” Ilya answers softly, thumb brushing Shane’s cheek. “Just stay calm. Quiet. Listen.”

Shane nods faintly, still shaking, still terrified—but his trust, fragile as it is, edges forward toward Ilya.

Ilya opens his coat pocket and pulls out another small pill. Shane’s lips part obediently, and Ilya gently places it in his mouth. Shane swallows without hesitation this time, the last shreds of resistance slipping away.

Ilya presses him close, head resting against Shane’s hair, holding him tightly to his chest. Shane exhales slowly, the panic finally bleeding out of him. His body goes slack in Ilya’s arms, and within moments, he is back in his seat and drifting into a deep, heavy sleep.

The plane hums steadily beneath them. First class remains calm, oblivious. Shane is quiet, contained, and in Ilya’s arms, he is—at least for now—manageable.

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac with a soft jolt.

Shane doesn’t wake immediately. He lies against Ilya’s chest, fingers still curled into the jacket, the drug’s residue keeping him heavy, drowsy.

“Time to wake,” Ilya murmurs once Shane stirs, voice low and calm. He tilts Shane’s head slightly, thumb brushing along his jaw. “Good boy. Eyes open.”

Shane glances around groggily. The cabin is quiet, emptied of most passengers. He swallows, panic threading the edges of his awareness. His hand is immediately grabbed by Ilya, firm, iron-tight. On the other side, Marley flanks him, looming, steady, unyielding. Shane’s pulse jumps. He’s trapped between them, no escape, no room to breathe freely.

They disembark. Shane’s feet follow mechanically, moving in rhythm with the two men. He’s quiet. Withdrawn. Every instinct tells him to scan, to run, to look for anyone who might help—but he doesn’t. He remembers the van, the pills, the bathroom incidents, the absolute control.

Eventually, Shane whispers, “Bathroom…”

Ilya glances down at him, expression flat but precise. “Yes,” he says. “We’ll stop.”

They enter a quiet terminal restroom. Ilya remains at Shane’s side, hand firm on his wrist, close enough that no one could approach him unnoticed. Marley leans in behind Shane, looming, silent, silent pressure reminding him there’s no misstep allowed. Shane shivers under the weight of both men, but he obeys, does what he needs to do, washes his face. Ilya keeps his hand firm, comforting and possessive. There is no chance to make a call, to shout, to ask for help.

Not long after, they are back in motion. The airport blurs around Shane as the men guide him through corridors, escalators, and hallways. The pace quickens. He notices the signs are no longer in French or English—letters and words he doesn’t recognize. Fear creeps back, layered with awe. Russia. He’s never been this far from Montreal.

A sleek black car waits. Ilya shoves him toward the open backseat with deliberate force. Marley follows immediately, sliding in on the other side. Shane is sandwiched between them, pressed into the middle of the seat. The stranger at the wheel glances back once, says nothing, and the vehicle lurches forward.

Shane’s stomach twists. Heart thunders. He looks out the window at a city foreign and sprawling, the streets lit with pale lamps, signs he cannot read, people he cannot recognize. Part of him is terrified, every nerve screaming that this is real. Another part—the smallest part—can’t help but be curious. He’s never been anywhere like this.

Ilya’s hand tightens over his, firm, grounding. Marley’s shoulder presses against his other side, steady and immovable. Shane’s mind swims with uncertainty. Every fear he has is there, but so is a strange thread of trust—fragile, tenuous—that Ilya has been building since the flight. The promises of safety, of calm, of no unnecessary harm.

Shane doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t move. He just sits, silent, pressed between them, letting the city blur past the window.

For now, that’s enough.

For now, he obeys.

For now, he trusts.

Shane drifts in and out of consciousness, body heavy and limp in the car. The drugs have dulled his senses, smoothed the panic into something manageable but not absent. He cannot control what he sees, cannot protest the journey. Hours pass in a blur of asphalt, foreign lights, and trees rushing past the windows.

When he finally wakes, he’s being hauled from the vehicle. His vision swims, focus wavering, heart hammering as he tries to make sense of his surroundings.

He doesn’t see Ilya.

Instead, his eyes take in the house. Quaint. Small, almost picturesque if it weren’t for the situation. Surrounded by nothing but dense forest, no other homes, no nearby roads, no way for anyone to stumble across them. Isolation stretches in every direction.

Shane’s chest tightens. Fear sharpens with every second he takes in the scene. “I-Ilya? Where—where’s Ilya?!” he cries, voice trembling, desperate.

Marley answers with impatience. He grabs Shane roughly, gripping him around the torso. “Shut up,” he snaps. “Just move.”

Shane struggles, twisting and kicking, panic rising to a scream. “No! Let me go! Ilya!”

Marley sighs and, in one swift motion, slings Shane over his shoulder like a sack of laundry. Shane’s arms flail, legs kicking, hair tugged by his own movement. He shouts, he sobs, but Marley doesn’t slow.

The front door opens into the modest, quiet interior. Shane’s eyes dart frantically around the house. There is no escape. Nothing to grab. No way out. Only the walls of the house and the oppressive quiet.

Marley throws him onto a bed in a small room near the entrance. Shane lands hard, sobbing, scrambling to get up, desperate to find Ilya—but he sees no one. Panic spikes further.

“Stop squirming,” Marley growls, dragging a thin metal cuff from his pocket. He attaches it around Shane’s ankle. Shane flinches and whimpers as Marley secures it, the other end clipped to the frame of the bed. The chain is short, giving Shane only a few feet of movement, enough to feel the confinement pressing down on him immediately.

“No! Please! Let me go!” Shane cries, tugging at the chain, kicking his legs weakly.

“Quiet,” Marley snaps, leaning down so his rough hands press against Shane’s shoulders, forcing him flat against the mattress. “You’re going to get some sleep. That’s it.”

Shane curls in on himself, tears streaming down his face. His sobs echo off the walls of the small room.

Marley steps back, shaking his head. “Sleep. You’ll need it.”

The door slams shut. Shane hears the lock click.

Darkness. Silence. Isolation.

Alone.

No Ilya. No hope of immediate help. Just the cold metal of the cuff, the short chain tethering him to the bed, and the oppressive weight of the forest pressing against the windows.

Shane curls tighter, shivering, heart hammering. For the first time, he realizes—completely, crushingly—that he is trapped.

Shane’s body gives out completely once Marley leaves the room.

The exhaustion is immediate, overwhelming. Kidnapped, drugged, carried across continents, terrified, and alone for hours—his body surrenders before his mind can even protest. He slumps against the bed, curls into himself, and passes out almost instantly.

He sleeps straight through the night.

When he wakes, the house is silent. The morning light filters weakly through the blinds, painting soft lines across the walls. Shane’s head pounds, a dull, relentless ache, likely the side effects of the drugs running their course. His body feels heavy, limbs sluggish, but his mind is sharper than it has been since that first forced pill.

He sits slowly, quiet, taking in the bare room—the sparse furniture, the window looking out at endless trees, the walls empty, unadorned. The unfamiliarity presses on him, but he sits still, too drained to panic, too alert to fully relax.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence. “I-Ilya? Marley?”

Footsteps approach. Marley appears in the doorway, expression neutral but firm. Shane flinches as Marley grabs him by the wrist and lifts him to his feet. The cuff from the previous night is removed. Relief and lingering fear war inside him.

Marley guides him to the bathroom. The touch of his heavy hand on the back of Shane’s neck keeps him in line, reminding him there is no running, no arguing. Shane finishes quickly, trembling, then follows silently as Marley leads him through the quiet house.

The hallway opens to the kitchen.

Ilya sits at the table, calm, composed, radiating control. Shane’s stomach twists. He freezes instinctively, unsure where to look. Ilya’s gaze is steady, and Shane feels the instinct to avert it.

Marley pushes him down into a chair at the table, the motion firm enough that Shane flinches but doesn’t resist. A plate of eggs and toast is set before him with precise hands, the smell unfamiliar but grounding.

Shane stares, eyes fixed just over Ilya’s shoulder, not daring to meet him directly. Words stick in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do, how to act in this new reality.

Ilya’s voice breaks the tension. “Good morning,” he says smoothly, casual, almost warm. “Eat. You need your energy.”

Shane swallows hard, trembling slightly, but obeys. His fork shakes as he picks up a bite, then another, guided by habit and fear. Ilya watches quietly, not hovering but fully present, his control subtle but absolute.

“You have a big call with your family later,” Ilya adds, voice low, calm. “You’ll need your energy. Focus. Eat.”

Shane nods faintly, eyes still downcast. Bite by bite, forkful by forkful, he eats, mechanically at first, then with just enough awareness to feel the food going down.

Ilya doesn’t pressure him further. He lets Shane eat, letting the simple act of consuming breakfast establish the fragile routine.

Shane swallows the last bite, stomach uneasy, head still pounding, body still tense—but he is fed, and for now, that is enough.

The house is silent again, but the weight of Ilya’s presence presses around him, constant, unrelenting. Shane knows that everything about today, every move, every action, will be under their watchful eyes.

And he is still too terrified to resist.

Shane collapses onto the couch in the living room. The cushions are soft, almost comforting in their texture, but they do nothing to ease the tight coil of panic in his chest.

Marley sits nearby, absorbed in his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. He doesn’t look at Shane. Doesn’t acknowledge him. He just exists as a solid, unyielding presence, reminding Shane of the invisible boundaries he cannot cross.

Ilya moves through the house like a storm. Phone to his ear, voice sharp and cutting in rapid, angry Russian. Shane doesn’t understand the words, but he understands the tone. Commands, threats, negotiations—all sharp edges in the air around him. Ilya paces, stops, gestures with one hand, then repeats, completely absorbed in conversations with people Shane cannot see.

Shane sits, frozen. Eyes wide. Fingers trembling slightly as they curl into the fabric of the couch. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move beyond the slight shifts necessary to keep his body from cramping.

Normally, he’d be at the gym, or walking across campus to his next class. His schedule, so rigidly followed for years, provides him with control, purpose, a rhythm that keeps the anxiety at bay.

Now, none of it exists.

No gym. No classes. No predictable wake-up times, no lectures, no people familiar enough to anchor him.

His body and mind begin to shut down in response to the relentless, unstructured chaos. Fatigue weighs on him like a physical blanket. Limbs heavy. Stomach twisting with nerves. Head spinning.

His hands shake, not violently, but with that subtle, uncontrollable tremor of someone utterly unmoored. He watches the world carry on around him—Marley scrolling, Ilya barking in Russian, the house filled with the hum of life moving forward—but he is a ghost within it, silent and small.

The rhythm he relied on for comfort, for identity, has been stripped away. All that remains is observation: wide-eyed, terrified, quietly counting the seconds in a life that no longer follows any pattern he recognizes.

And for the first time in a long time, Shane feels utterly untethered.

The sharp click of Ilya ending the call reverberates through the living room.

He stands there for a moment, watching Shane. His posture is measured, deliberate—observing. Shane’s hands grip the couch cushions, knuckles white, eyes wide. He doesn’t dare meet Ilya’s gaze, but the weight of it presses down on him anyway.

The silence stretches.

And then Shane snaps.

Tears slip over his lashes, unbidden, hot and fast. His body shudders slightly, overwhelmed by exhaustion, fear, confusion, and the sheer disorientation of everything he’s endured. The silence of the house, the looming presence of Ilya, the months of routine ripped away—all of it crashes down at once. The tears fall silently, but they are impossible to hide from Ilya.

“Fuck,” Ilya mutters under his breath, voice rough with irritation and something darker, something assessing.

Without another word, he moves to sit beside Shane. Close. Too close to retreat from. Shane stiffens for a second, then his body sags slightly under the tension, the magnetic pull of Ilya’s presence.

Ilya drops a hand into Shane’s hair, warm and heavy, fingers threading through damp strands, brushing along his scalp with slow, deliberate strokes. The motion is soothing—impossible to resist. Shane’s body melts into it almost instantly. The panic in his chest eases slightly, replaced by a fragile, trembling relief.

Shane leans forward, pressing against Ilya, letting himself be comforted. It doesn’t matter where the touch comes from, only that it exists. Only that it anchors him.

“There,” Ilya murmurs softly, voice low, steady. “Breathe. Calm. You’re okay.”

Shane inhales shakily, then exhales. His shoulders relax slightly. The tremors in his hands slow. The tears continue, but they are quieter now, less urgent.

Ilya’s hand moves methodically, soothing, pressing against Shane’s head, brushing along his hair, tilting it to press his temple to Ilya’s chest. Shane’s body relaxes further, leaning entirely into the warmth and steadiness, into the only comfort he has allowed himself to feel since the kidnapping.

“You’re safe,” Ilya whispers again, low and commanding, the words carrying a weight Shane instinctively trusts.

Shane closes his eyes, allowing himself to melt completely into the moment. He wants comfort. He needs it. And for the first time since the abduction, it doesn’t seem to matter whose hands are providing it.

Ilya continues his slow, steady motions, guiding Shane’s breathing, letting him calm, letting him release the panic that had been coiled tight inside him.

For now, Shane is quiet. Still. Calm.

And Ilya is in control.

Shane’s breathing has finally evened out when Ilya straightens slightly and speaks over his head.
“Marley. Get what we need for the call.”

The word call cuts through Shane’s fog instantly.

His head lifts a fraction, eyes brightening despite the lingering tears. His family. His chest tightens with a sudden, fragile hope, like something warm trying to surface through layers of fear. He shifts unconsciously, as if sitting up might somehow make it happen faster.

Ilya notices immediately.

The hand in Shane’s hair doesn’t stop. If anything, it becomes more deliberate—fingers stroking, pressing Shane back against him, a quiet, grounding pressure.
“Easy,” Ilya murmurs, calm and steady. “Not yet.”

Shane exhales shakily and stills, the hope folding inward on itself as quickly as it appeared.

Marley returns a few minutes later. He sets everything down on the low table in front of them without ceremony: an old, clunky laptop with a cracked casing, a roll of duct tape, and a strip of towel fabric—roughly torn, knotted thickly in the center.

Shane’s eyes lock onto the tape.

“No—” The word leaves his mouth before he can stop it. His breathing spikes instantly, panic roaring back to life. He tries to pull away, tries to sit up, but Ilya already has him.

Strong arms wrap around him and Ilya pulls him down smoothly, decisively, until Shane is sprawled chest-down across his lap. The motion knocks the air from his lungs.

“Hey—stop—please—!” Shane shouts, his voice breaking as Marley steps in.

Hands grab his wrists, wrenching them behind his back. Shane struggles instinctively, whimpering, twisting, his fear loud and raw now. The couch creaks beneath them.

“Shh,” Ilya says softly, almost kindly, even as he tightens his grip and holds Shane firmly in place. “It’s alright. You’re alright. Calm down.”

The contrast is dizzying—gentle words paired with absolute restraint.

Marley tapes Shane’s arms tightly together behind his back, each pull of the duct tape loud in the room. Shane sobs openly now, his face pressed against Ilya’s thigh, body shaking as the last strip is secured.

“Done,” Marley mutters.

Ilya shifts his hold and pulls Shane upright again, keeping him trapped between his legs, back against his chest. Shane’s shoulders slump forward, bound and exhausted, tears streaking his face.

Marley passes over the towel strip.

Ilya takes it, then pauses.

He sighs softly, as if reconsidering something, and reaches forward instead. His hands come up to Shane’s face, palms firm against his cheeks, thumbs pressing just enough to keep Shane still. Shane’s breath stutters, eyes darting, terrified but locked on Ilya now.

“I explain,” Ilya says quietly. His voice is calm, measured. “You listen.”

Shane nods frantically, barely breathing.

“We are calling your family,” Ilya continues. “But we cannot let you speak with them. You know things we do not want them to know.”

Shane’s lower lip trembles.

“You will open your mouth like a good boy for me,” Ilya says, not unkindly, “and I tie towel to keep you quiet. We call your mama and papa. You see them. You stay calm and good.”

His thumbs press a little harder into Shane’s cheeks, forcing his focus.

“I untie you when call is over.”

The promise hangs in the air.

Shane swallows hard, chest heaving, eyes glassy and terrified—but there is understanding there too. He nods again, small and shaky, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it came.

Ilya releases his face slowly, towel still in his hand.

“Good,” he murmurs.

And Shane, bound and crying, sits very still—because seeing his family, even like this, is worth almost anything.

Shane opens his mouth on instinct.

His breath hitches sharply as Ilya presses the knotted fabric past his teeth. The knot is thick, intrusive, forcing his jaw wider than is comfortable. Ilya ties the ends tight behind his head, the fabric pulling painfully at Shane’s hair as it’s secured. Shane whines helplessly, the sound muffled and broken.

Ilya pushes him forward, pressing him down into the couch with a firm hand between his shoulders before standing.

Shane is left alone for a moment—bound, gagged, heart hammering wildly. He doesn’t try to move. Doesn’t struggle. He stays exactly where he’s been put, every muscle rigid with the effort of obedience. He wants the tape off his wrists. He wants the gag gone. And he knows, with terrifying clarity, that the only way that happens is if he’s good.

Marley powers up the laptop. The screen flickers, hums, and then a familiar ringing sound fills the room.

Shane’s breath stutters.

The video connects.

The screen fills with his parents’ faces.

Yuna and David Hollander sit at their kitchen table, hands clenched together so tightly their knuckles are white. Yuna lets out a sharp, broken gasp the moment she sees Shane. Her free hand flies to her mouth.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

Shane’s chest caves in. His vision blurs instantly. He leans forward as far as the restraints allow, a desperate sound tearing from his throat through the gag. His parents look exhausted—eyes red, faces drawn with fear and sleeplessness.

Before he can move again, large hands settle heavily on his shoulders.

Shane startles violently and looks up.

Ilya stands behind him, towering, one hand gripping Shane’s shoulder hard enough to remind him he’s trapped. In the other hand, visible and unmistakable, is a gun.

Shane freezes.

Ilya leans slightly forward, close enough that Shane can feel his presence like a shadow over him. When Shane’s whimper grows louder, Ilya clicks his tongue softly. One hand slides down, fingers gripping Shane’s jaw, forcing his head back so his face tilts up, eyes dragged away from the screen and toward Ilya’s chin, his throat, the underside of his calm, unreadable expression.

“Shh,” Ilya murmurs quietly. “Be good.”

Then he looks at the camera.

“Yuna,” Ilya says smoothly, his accent thick but his tone perfectly controlled. “Your father has made very powerful enemies.”

Yuna’s eyes flick desperately between Shane and the gun.

“He has put your boy in danger,” Ilya continues. “What happens next is up to you.”

David tightens his grip on Yuna’s hand. “Please,” he says hoarsely. “He’s just a kid.”

Ilya doesn’t even glance at Shane when he answers. “Then you will help to fix what your father broke.”

Shane’s body trembles violently beneath Ilya’s hands. Tears spill freely now, soaking into the fabric of the gag as he makes soft, desperate noises—every instinct screaming to reach for his parents, to warn them, to beg them not to listen.

Ilya’s fingers tighten briefly at his jaw in warning.

“You will stay calm,” Ilya murmurs to Shane, too quietly for the call to pick up. “You will let me talk.”

Shane nods frantically, tears streaming down his face.

On the screen, Yuna is crying openly now, her voice shaking as she says Shane’s name over and over, helpless and heartbroken.

And Shane, bound and silenced, can only stare back—eyes wide, body shaking—while the men around him decide his fate.

Ilya keeps his hand firm on Shane’s shoulder as he addresses the screen, voice calm, almost conversational.

“Your father has chosen to betray a decades‑old truce with my family,” Ilya says. “A very stupid decision.”

Yuna shakes her head immediately, tears spilling freely now. “We—we don’t talk to him,” she insists, voice cracking. “We haven’t spoken to my father since Shane was a child. He’s not part of our lives—”

Ilya doesn’t react.

“He is indebted to my family,” he continues, unbothered. “Five million dollars. When we came to collect, he murdered my men. That debt is now overdue.”

Shane’s breath stutters through the gag. His body trembles harder beneath Ilya’s grip.

“The remaining five million is due now,” Ilya goes on, his tone sharpening just slightly, “and I am adding interest. One million more. For the pain and suffering of the families of the men your father killed.”

David’s face drains of color. “You can’t—please—”

“You will get me six million dollars,” Ilya says, unflinching. “By the end of the month. Or your boy will suffer.”

Yuna sobs outright now. “Please,” she begs. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s just a student—please don’t hurt him. Let me talk to him, please—take that thing off his mouth, just for a moment—”

Shane lets out a broken sound at her words, straining forward again instinctively, desperate to hear her voice, to be heard.

Ilya’s fingers dig into his shoulder in warning.

“Solve the problem,” Ilya says coolly. “Or the next time you see your boy, he will be in pieces.”

Yuna cries out Shane’s name, frantic, pleading, her hands reaching toward the screen as if she could somehow pull him back through it.

“Please—please—don’t do this—let me talk to my son—”

Marley doesn’t wait.

He reaches forward and snaps the laptop shut.

The sudden silence is suffocating.

Shane makes a high, muffled sound of panic, tears streaming freely now as he stares at the closed laptop, chest heaving. His parents’ faces linger behind his eyes—his mother crying, his father helpless—and then they’re gone.

Ilya releases Shane’s jaw but keeps his hand heavy on his shoulder.

“It’s done,” he says quietly.

Shane slumps forward, shaking violently, bound, gagged, and utterly shattered—left with the echo of his mother’s voice and the crushing knowledge that his life is now measured in money he cannot control.

Ilya remains standing over Shane for a long moment after the laptop goes dark.

One hand moves slowly through Shane’s hair, fingers combing gently, rhythmically, accompanied by soft shushing sounds meant to calm, to quiet, to smooth over what has just happened. The contrast is jarring—tender gestures layered over a threat that still hangs heavy in the air.

Marley gathers the laptop, the tape, the remaining supplies from the table without a word. He doesn’t look at Shane as he disappears into the back of the house, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

The room grows quieter.

Shane’s chest hitches and a louder, broken whine slips out of him before he can stop it. His shoulders curl inward, body shaking now that there’s nothing left to brace against.

Ilya reacts immediately.

The softness vanishes, replaced by decisive movement. He tucks the gun away, then crouches in front of Shane, close enough that Shane can feel him there even without looking. Ilya reaches for Shane’s wrists and carefully cuts through the tape, one strip at a time. The release is slow, deliberate, as if he’s reminding Shane that even relief comes on Ilya’s terms.

When Shane’s hands are finally free, Ilya unties the towel gag and pulls it away.

Shane swallows hard, jaw aching, lips trembling—but no words come. He doesn’t cry out. He doesn’t thank him. He doesn’t beg.

He just sits there, silent, arms limp in his lap, eyes unfocused and distant.

Ilya watches him closely for a moment, studying the way Shane has gone so still.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs quietly, almost to himself.

Shane says nothing.

The house is silent again, and this time it feels heavier than before.

The hours crawl by in silence.

Marley flicks on the television. A Russian soap opera plays quietly, the voices and laughter floating through the room. Shane stares at the screen, eyes glassy and unfocused. The images wash over him, but he sees nothing. He’s trapped in a haze of exhaustion, fear, and disorientation, the reality of his situation settling in like a lead weight on his chest.

Time passes, slow and unrelenting. The sunlight shifts through the blinds, marking hours Shane doesn’t care to notice. His stomach growls faintly, but he ignores it. He doesn’t care about food.

Eventually, Ilya moves toward him, voice low and calm. “Eat,” he says.

Shane flinches, tries to push him away, shakes his head, tries to refuse. “No… I don’t—”

Ilya doesn’t argue. He just positions himself on one side of Shane, while Marley slides in on the other. Shane’s chest tightens immediately, panic flaring as he realizes he’s now fully trapped.

Marley grabs Shane’s wrists and holds them firmly to his lap. The strength of his grip leaves no room to move. Shane struggles, twisting, whimpering, crying softly through the memory of the gag and his fear.

Ilya leans in and forces Shane’s mouth open. Pieces of a torn-up sandwich are pressed in, one after another. Shane tries to push back, to spit, to resist in any way he can, but the two men work in unison. Marley’s hands are relentless, keeping Shane pinned, while Ilya’s face remains calm, almost tender, as he feeds him piece by piece.

“Good boy,” Ilya murmurs softly between pieces, voice steady and low. “Eat. Energy.”

Shane cries quietly, whines into the soft bites, but slowly, piece by piece, the sandwich disappears. A can of ginger ale follows, pressed to his lips by Ilya’s steady hand. Shane swallows with trembling, uneven gulps, tears spilling freely as the reality of being forced like this presses down on him.

Finally, it is done.

Ilya removes the can, steps back slightly. Marley releases his hold on Shane’s wrists. Shane slumps forward onto the couch cushions, chest heaving, arms limp, exhausted beyond anything he has felt in his life.

Ilya watches him carefully, hand still resting lightly against Shane’s shoulder. “Good,” he murmurs again.

Shane says nothing. He just lies there, trembling, silent, letting the weariness and fear wash over him.

The room falls back into quiet, with only the muted Russian soap opera filling the space. Shane’s mind drifts, foggy, helpless, trapped in the endless stillness and control of the house.

Ilya straightens and announces, his voice calm and even, “I have errands to run. I will return later.”

The words hit Shane like a cold wave. For the first time since the call with his parents, something in him stirs. He lifts his head, sits up straighter than he has in hours, trembling. A soft, broken whimper escapes his lips.

He doesn’t want to be left with Marley. Not for a second. There’s something about the man—his size, his hands, the way he moves—that terrifies Shane to his core, though he can’t explain why.

Marley notices immediately. A slow, humorless chuckle escapes him. He leans back slightly, raising one dark eyebrow at Ilya.

Ilya watches Shane carefully for a moment, then his lips curl into a small, almost tender smile. He kneels slightly, reaching forward. His thumb brushes softly over Shane’s cheek, warm and deliberate, a stark contrast to the fear that pulses through the boy’s body.

“I will not be long,” Ilya murmurs, voice low and soothing. “Be good for Marley, and maybe I bring treat when I come back. Yes?”

Shane’s lip trembles. He wants to protest. To beg him to stay. But he knows better. He swallows, chest heaving, and nods, tiny and silent, unable to speak the words he wants to.

Ilya straightens, letting the moment linger just long enough to remind Shane he is in control, then steps toward the door. Shane watches, eyes wide and pleading, the weight of the house pressing down on him even as Ilya’s figure slips from view.

Marley shifts in his seat, eyes flicking down at Shane. The boy’s whimper is quiet, but the tension radiates off him in waves. Shane stays where he is, frozen, aware that the world has narrowed to the space between himself and the man he is left with, every instinct screaming caution, every muscle coiled with dread.

The room feels colder now. The door closes. Silence descends.

Shane hugs himself, small and trembling, silently wishing Ilya would return immediately.

The hours drag on.

Shane sits on the couch, barely moving. The television plays quietly in the background, but he doesn’t watch. His stomach aches from the earlier forced meal, and every sound in the quiet house makes him flinch. Time stretches, endless and oppressive, until the sun slips low and the shadows grow long.

Ilya does not return.

By the time evening comes, Marley appears without warning. His movements are brisk, efficient, leaving no room for hesitation. Shane’s heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t have to be told what will happen—he’s seen the routine before.

“Come on,” Marley says curtly, his hand firm at Shane’s elbow. Shane stiffens, whimpers, but doesn’t resist.

He is herded down the hall like a frightened animal, every step measured and controlled. His small protests die in his throat, swallowed by the weight of Marley’s grip.

When they reach the bedroom, Marley guides him to the bed. The cuffs are already waiting. Shane flinches as Marley fastens the metal around his ankle and secures the chain to the bedframe. The cold bite of the metal sends a shiver up his spine.

“You’ll see him in the morning,” Marley says, voice low but firm, reading Shane’s fear like a map. “Ilya’ll be here. You’re safe.”

Shane swallows, nods faintly, unable to speak. His chest heaves as he sinks onto the bed, curling into himself. The metal chain restricts his movements, a constant reminder that he cannot leave, cannot resist, cannot escape.

He closes his eyes. The exhaustion, the fear, the day’s relentless tension—too much for even his body to hold. His mind goes blank.

Sleep comes quickly, dreamless and heavy, carrying him away from the terror of the living room, from Marley’s looming presence, from the uncertainty of what the morning will bring.

For now, there is only the quiet, only the darkness, and the steady, inescapable chain that binds him to the bed.

Shane wakes to the soft click of his bedroom door opening.

Ilya steps inside, carrying three shopping bags. Shane’s hair is wild, spiking in every direction, a thin line of drool tracing down his chin. He tries to right himself, blinking away sleep and panic at the same time, when Ilya sets the bags down on the bed.

“Here is treat,” Ilya says, calm, commanding. “Look through and come to kitchen when ready.”

Before Shane can respond, Ilya slips back into the hall, leaving the door wide open.

Shane hesitates, then tentatively leans over the bags. The first is full of clothing—hoodies, sweatpants, and T-shirts, including a hoodie that must be at least two sizes too big. He lifts it up, the sleeves dangling past his fingertips, and a small smile tugs at his lips despite himself.

The second bag holds small distractions—an oddly comforting squishy cube that feels like a stress ball, books with English writing on the covers, colored pencils, and a drawing pad. Shane picks up the cube and presses it into his hand, the simple sensation grounding him.

The final bag contains just one item: a fluffy teddy bear. Shane reaches out with trembling fingers, brushing the soft fur. Despite the toy being for a child, it brings a warmth, a strange, unearned comfort. He hugs it lightly against his chest, reluctant to admit how much he needs it.

Shane hurries to the bathroom, letting the water wash away the night’s fear and grime. He pulls the oversized hoodie over himself, the fabric swallowing him almost completely, then gathers the bag of books and toys. He props the teddy bear carefully on his pillows, a small anchor in the unfamiliar house.

Following the sound of laughter and fast-paced Russian, he ventures into the hall. Voices echo down the corridor until he finds Ilya seated at the table, face breaking into a wide grin as he spots Shane. Marley moves around the kitchen, cooking at the stove.

“Aren’t you adorable,” Ilya says in Russian. Shane tilts his head, recognizing the words are directed at him even if he doesn’t understand them.

“Sit,” Ilya commands, switching back to English. Shane obeys, sliding into the chair as Marley sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of him.

Shane eats quickly, anxious, careful not to spill anything. Once he swallows the last bite, he can’t help asking, voice small and cautious, “Will I speak to my mom and dad today?”

Ilya meets his gaze, thumb brushing over Shane’s cheek in a familiar, grounding gesture. “Yes,” he says simply, “as soon as you’re done.”

Shane inhales the rest of his food, heart hammering in anticipation. He’s ready—ready to see his parents again, even if he knows he won’t be able to speak freely. The promise of that brief connection, no matter how controlled, gives him a flicker of hope he hasn’t felt since the call began.

After finishing breakfast, Shane moves quietly to the couch. Marley is waiting, duct tape and that awful towel in hand.

“You will fight again?” Marley asks, voice low, almost teasing.

Shane shakes his head quickly, turning around and offering his hands. The sound of the duct tape ripping is sharp and loud in the otherwise quiet room. Shane flinches slightly but remains still.

Once his wrists are secured, Ilya pushes him gently onto the couch and gags him with little ceremony. Shane whimpers softly, chest tight, but does his best to be compliant. He wants to see his mom. He wants to see her so badly that he swallows down every instinct to protest.

Moments later, the video connects. Shane’s parents’ faces appear on the screen, steadier, calmer than yesterday. Ilya stands behind him, a hand resting lightly around Shane’s jaw like before, though he doesn’t pull or obstruct Shane’s view this time. Shane’s chest tightens with relief, able to see them without the constant reminder of the gun.

“Shane, sweetheart,” Yuna says gently, voice full of careful warmth. “We are going to have you home soon, okay? Just hang in there.”

Shane swallows against the gag, nodding slightly, eyes wide but fixed on her face.

“I want update,” Ilya demands, his voice cutting through the softness like steel.

Yuna takes a breath. “We spoke with my father yesterday. Explained the situation. He wants to speak with you directly. He is here—but we wanted to make sure it was okay before he comes on video.”

Ilya shrugs, unconcerned.

The screen flickers, and a new figure steps into frame. Shane doesn’t recognize the man immediately—he doesn’t even know his name. The last time he saw his grandfather, Shane was barely five years old. He had always accepted the stories that his grandfather was too busy, too preoccupied with work, too strict to care about their family. But now, seeing him here, he begins to understand.

The man looks old and frail, skin drawn, eyes sharp beneath a deep scowl. “You expect me to gather six million dollars in weeks?” he demands, voice hot and cracking with anger.

“I expect you to care for boy’s life,” Ilya replies, calm and cutting. “I do not care how you do. I just know—if you want boy home alive—you will do.”

Yuna steps in quickly, her voice measured, trying to mediate. “We will get the money,” she says, hands clasped tight. “But we need time. Let us talk to Shane as a show of good faith, and we will work on the money. Please.”

Ilya shakes his head slightly, almost amused. “You can talk,” he says finally. “He is quiet boy for now.”

David exhales, a deep, tired sound. His gaze flicks toward Shane, worry etched into every line of his face. “Shane,” he says softly, “we will have you home soon. Just do what they say, alright?”

Shane blinks behind the gag, his small nod barely perceptible. His hands twitch in his lap, bound, and his chest rises and falls quickly. The words offer a fragile comfort, but the reality is unmistakable: he is still very much at their mercy.

The screen flickers, his parents’ eyes locked on him, and Shane stays frozen, silent but attentive, absorbing every detail, every tone, every unspoken threat. His heart hammers, caught between hope and fear, unsure how much of either he is allowed to feel.

“How much time do we have?” Shane’s grandfather demands, voice tight with impatience and anger.

Shane’s attention fractures immediately. Words blur together, a jumble of shouting, arguing, and the quiet pleading of his parents. His chest tightens, pulse pounding in his ears, and the world narrows to the strange, distant hum of conversation that he can’t follow.

Finally, the voices soften. His parents lean toward the camera, faces full of exhaustion and worry. “We love you, Shane,” Yuna says, voice breaking. David repeats it, calm and steady, his hand brushing against Yuna’s even through the screen.

Marley reaches forward and closes the laptop, the click of it echoing in the silent room. Shane flinches, small and tense, before letting his head slump slightly against the couch cushions.

Similar to yesterday, the words linger and fade, and Shane retreats inward. He curls a little, eyes unfocused, body tense and still. His mind swims, trying to make sense of what just happened, trying to hold onto a fragile flicker of hope without giving in to panic.

Ilya kneels beside him, hand moving to rip the tape from Shane’s wrists. Shane flinches at the movement but doesn’t resist, letting the sticky material fall away. He stays where he is, hands limp, eyes distant.

For a moment, Ilya disappears. Shane sits in the quiet, unblinking. Then something soft presses into his hands—a small, familiar squishy cube in one, a soft, comforting item in the other, the bear. His fingers wrap around them instinctively, drawing a little comfort from their texture.

Ilya’s hand moves through Shane’s hair slowly, brushing and smoothing, almost soothingly. Shane leans slightly into the motion, allowing himself to relax fractionally, even as the world outside his mind remains chaotic and frightening.

Without another word, Ilya rises and slips deeper into the house, leaving Shane with the small items, his fingers gripping them tightly as a tenuous anchor in the storm of his fear and confusion. Shane sits quietly, still, eyes unfocused, but a tiny flicker of grounding—the squishy cube, the teddy bear—anchors him in the moment, even as the weight of his situation presses down all around him.

Days pass.

Shane, Ilya, and Marley fall into a tentative rhythm, the sort of routine that carries the weight of control but offers a fragile sense of predictability.

Mornings begin with breakfast. Ilya and Marley move efficiently, but Shane finds the courage to eat quickly, hoping to stay compliant and avoid trouble. Afterward, he moves to the living room and begins his stretches and exercises behind the couch, muscles stiff from hours spent curled up or bound. His motions are careful, precise, a way to reclaim a sense of normalcy, even in the house that traps him.

Showering follows, a brief sanctuary, the warm water washing away both sweat and lingering panic. Then he returns to the couch, hands busy with books, colored pencils, or the squishy cube Ilya gave him. Some days he draws, letting the lines and shapes anchor him. Other days he flips through books, practicing words and letters, testing himself against English sentences. When neither occupies him, his hands find the fidgets—soft, quiet objects that absorb his attention, giving him a small sense of control over the world.

Meals are taken on the couch, television murmuring in the background. Marley has even managed to put on English subtitles for the programs, and Shane sometimes tries to follow along, mouth moving silently at the words, eyes tracing the letters.

It is quiet, controlled, and orderly. Shane does what he must to stay safe, obeying rules that have been drilled into him. His days are long, structured, and full of small, repetitive motions that let him survive the slow, suffocating weight of the house and the men who control it.

Even in this constrained world, though, he begins to notice small anchors—the soft cube in his hand, the oversized hoodie he can pull over himself, the comforting press of Ilya’s hand in fleeting moments. They are tiny, fragile things, but they give him something to cling to in a life measured in obedience, fear, and the faint, distant hope of seeing his parents again.

Shane wakes with a start in the middle of the night.

A hand presses firmly over his mouth. He freezes, heart hammering, eyes wide in the dark. The room smells faintly of leather and cologne, and the pressure of the hand is unyielding.

“Shh… not a sound,” a deep, commanding voice hisses near his ear.

Ilya.

Shane’s body locks instantly at the realization. Now that he knows who is holding him, he notices everything else—the faint rustle of movement, the flash of red and blue through the blinds of his window. His pulse spikes as the high-pitched wail of a siren slices through the night, making his chest tighten.

Marley’s voice rings out, louder and rougher, speaking with strangers Shane can’t see but can clearly hear. Panic curls in his stomach.

Shane whimpers, tiny and helpless.

“Quiet!” Ilya snaps, voice low but lethal. His hand presses harder, lips brushing Shane’s ear. “These men will not help you. They will find way to make own money from your plight.”

Shane freezes completely, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as the sirens blare. Moments stretch, each second crawling by with every shout, every metallic footstep, every bark of unfamiliar voices.

Then, slowly, the chaos fades.

The voices recede. The front door clicks shut. The sirens die. The flashing lights vanish. Only the hum of distant cars remains.

Still, Ilya does not let go. Shane’s muscles ache from the tension of being held so tightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Footsteps echo softly down the hallway. Ilya’s grip tightens, and a gun is raised, aimed at the door before it opens.

“They’re gone,” Marley’s voice announces from just outside.

The weight on Shane’s body shifts. Ilya lowers his gun and finally releases him. Shane collapses onto the bed, trembling violently, eyes wide and unblinking, soaked in relief but still trapped in the echo of fear that has gripped him for what feels like hours.

Ilya kneels beside him, brushing a hand through his hair. Shane presses into the touch, heart still racing, silently grateful—and terrified—all at once.

Shane wakes abruptly, still half-dreaming, when Marley’s hands slam into his face, shoving the gag roughly into his mouth.

Startled, Shane chokes, coughing into the fabric. His hands shoot up instinctively, trying to push it away, to protect himself before his mind can even process what’s happening.

Marley bats his hands aside with practiced force and shoves Shane onto his stomach, pressing him down until the gag is secured. The tape around his wrists is quick, rough, precise. His arms are bound, leaving him helpless. Shane struggles for a moment, panicked, before his limbs realize the futility.

Marley unlocks the cuff around his ankle, and Shane is dragged toward the living room, the hard scrape of the floor under his body echoing in the quiet house.

Ilya sits on the couch, phone propped up, speaking to Shane’s parents in calm, measured tones. He doesn’t look up as Shane is unceremoniously dumped practically into his lap.

“Fuck!” Ilya snaps, voice sharp and low, hand tightening briefly on Shane’s shoulder. “Here is boy. I tell you he is fine. Just sleeping. You say I have hurt him and you will do something stupid.”

Shane pants through the gag, wild-eyed, shirtless, and still half asleep. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, trying to orient himself in the sudden shift.

Yuna gasps on the screen. “Shane! Are you okay, sweetie?”

Shane’s eyes flick to Ilya’s, catching the hard anger etched into his expression. Instinctively, despite his confusion and panic, he nods slightly toward his mother. He doesn’t speak, can’t speak, but he understands what is expected: compliance, quiet, obedience.

Ilya loosens slightly, keeping a firm hand on Shane’s shoulder, but the warning in his gaze remains clear. Shane leans forward just a little into the seat, chest heaving, eyes wide and wary, aware that his slightest misstep could undo the fragile safety his mother’s presence on the screen represents.

Yuna’s voice trembles as she speaks. “We have five million.”

Her father’s face hardens immediately. “I will not pay an extra million,” he snaps. “That was never part of—”

Ilya cuts him off without raising his voice. He calmly recites a string of bank information, slow and deliberate, making sure every number is heard.
“You wire this,” he says. “We call back once money is transferred.”

And then the screen goes dark.

Ilya doesn’t linger this time. He shoves Shane’s bound body down onto the couch, forcing him flat against the cushions. Shane lets out a muffled sound of surprise through the gag, heart pounding violently.

Unlike every other time, the restraints stay.

Ilya stands and turns away from Shane entirely, launching into rapid, angry Russian with Marley. The shift is immediate—voices sharp, clipped, filled with irritation.

“If we accept five million, we look weak,” Ilya snaps. “We cannot let him off hook for this.”

Marley scoffs. “So what? We kill boy for not getting final million?”

The words land like ice water.

Shane’s chest tightens painfully. He freezes, breath stuttering behind the gag as panic surges. His mind latches onto every sound, every inflection, trying to understand words he doesn’t know, tone he very much does. His routine is broken. He was supposed to be untied. This is wrong. Something is wrong.

His breathing starts to come too fast, too shallow. He presses his face into the couch cushions, trying desperately not to hyperventilate, not to make noise, not to draw attention to himself while they argue over his life like it’s a line item on a ledger.

And then there’s the smaller, humiliating problem layered on top of the terror.

He really has to pee.

The pressure is sharp now, unavoidable, made worse by the way he’s been pinned here for too long. He squirms slightly, then stills, afraid to move again. His eyes sting with tears as his body betrays him in yet another way.

The men’s voices rise and fall behind him, the Russian harsh and fast, the argument unresolved.

Shane lies there bound and gagged, heart racing, bladder aching, mind spiraling—clinging to the fragile hope that someone will remember him soon, that this deviation from routine doesn’t mean something far worse is coming next.

Ilya notices the tears only after the room goes quiet.

Marley is hunched over his phone, thumb scrolling, jaw tight. Ilya exhales slowly, the anger draining from his posture as he finally looks back at the couch.

Shane is crying.

It’s not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears slipping down his temples and into the couch cushion, his shoulders trembling despite his efforts to stay still.

Ilya curses under his breath and steps closer. He crouches, fingers deft as he reaches for the knot at the back of Shane’s head.
“Why cry?” he asks, almost impatiently, as he pulls the gag free.

Shane sucks in air like he’s been underwater. “Bathroom!” he blurts, voice cracked and urgent.

For a split second there’s silence—then Marley laughs outright. Ilya snorts despite himself, shaking his head.

“Jesus,” Marley mutters.

Ilya cuts the tape quickly, rough but efficient. The moment Shane’s hands are free, he scrambles upright and bolts down the hall without looking back.

The bathroom door shuts. Shane locks it with shaking hands and presses his palms to the counter, breathing hard. The release is immediate and overwhelming, leaving him lightheaded. He stays there longer than necessary, splashing water on his face, brushing his hair into some semblance of order, grounding himself.

Schedule. Routine. Pretend this is normal.

He pulls on his hoodie, gathers his notebook, pencils, and fidgets, then hesitates before picking up the teddy bear from the bedroom. After a beat, he tucks it under his arm too.

When he returns to the living room, his heart sinks.

Ilya is standing by the couch again.

Duct tape in hand.

“Do not fight me,” Ilya says evenly as he turns.

Shane freezes. His eyes go wide and he takes a step back instinctively. “I—I wasn’t—”

Ilya closes the distance in two strides. He grabs the hood of Shane’s sweatshirt and yanks him forward, spinning him and forcing him down onto the couch. Shane gasps as his things tumble from his arms—pencils skittering across the floor, notebook thudding softly, the teddy bear landing facedown near the table.

“No,” Shane breathes, panic surging as his hands are wrenched behind him.

Tape tears loudly in the room. Once. Twice. Too tight.

Shane whimpers as the familiar pressure locks his arms in place. He twists, but it’s useless. Ilya reaches down and grabs the gag that’s been hanging loose around Shane’s neck, shoving it back between his teeth and tying it firmly.

“We call your mama again,” Ilya says flatly.

Shane’s protest dies into a muffled sound as the gag is secured. His eyes burn as he stares at the floor, breathing fast, heart hammering—routine shattered again, comfort stripped away in seconds.

The teddy bear lies just out of reach.

Ilya grabs Shane’s face and forces him to look into his eyes. “I will hurt you on call. Not too much I hope. But your grandfather owe one million more. You cannot go home until they pay the rest.” 

Shane whimpers into his gag. Pleading for something he doesn’t quite understand himself. Mercy? Kindness? Anything but pain? 

Marley opens the laptop to call. Ilya pulls his knife open as he stands behind Shane. Hand pulling Shane’s jaw up and back, blade pressed to his neck. 

Yunas gasp can be heard the moment the call connects. “One million dollars in my account by tonight or boy dies.” 

Shane is not really there when it happens.

The room goes distant, like he’s been shoved underwater. Sound dulls first—voices turning warped and far away—then sensation follows. His body reacts without him. Somewhere, he knows he is crying, knows there is pain in his cheek, but it feels disconnected, like it belongs to someone else entirely. The ceiling blurs. Time stretches, folds in on itself.

When awareness seeps back in, it’s not pain that brings him back.

It’s touch.

Gentler than before. Careful.

Shane blinks, unfocused. The living room is quiet now. The laptop is gone. Marley’s footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving them alone. Ilya is kneeling in front of him, close enough that Shane can smell soap and metal and something sharp beneath it all.

Ilya’s voice is low. Controlled. “Hey. Look at me.”

Shane doesn’t. He can’t. His eyes are fixed somewhere past Ilya’s shoulder, glassy and empty.

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose and reaches up, cupping Shane’s chin—not forcing this time, just guiding. When Shane doesn’t resist, Ilya stills, like he hadn’t expected that.

“Stay with me,” he mutters, more to himself than to Shane.

Something cool presses briefly against Shane’s skin. A cloth. Ilya’s movements are precise now, efficient, wiping away blood. He works slowly, methodically, as if rushing might make something worse. Shane flinches once, a small involuntary jerk, and Ilya immediately pulls back.

“Easy,” he says, softer. “I know. I know.”

A bandage is fastened over Shane’s cheek by gentle hands.

The duct tape is cut away next. Shane barely registers the release until his shoulders sag forward, arms heavy as they drop uselessly into his lap. He doesn’t rub at his wrists. He doesn’t move at all.

Ilya cleans his hands, then hesitates, watching Shane’s face like he’s trying to read something written in a language he doesn’t quite understand.

“Shane,” he says again.

Nothing.

A flicker of irritation crosses Ilya’s expression, quickly smothered. He reaches behind him and retrieves the teddy bear from where it had fallen to the floor. He gently presses it into Shane’s hands.

“Hold this.”

Shane’s fingers curl around the animal automatically. The familiar softness seems to anchor him just enough. His breathing evens out, shallow but no longer panicked.

“There,” Ilya murmurs. “Good.” Ilya straightens and sits beside him on the couch, close but not touching, elbows on his knees.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

Finally, Shane’s voice slips out—small, flat, like it’s coming from very far away.

“Am I… in trouble?”

The question lands heavier than any accusation.

Ilya closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, his tone is firm but oddly gentle. “No. You did what you were told.”

Shane absorbs this without reaction. His gaze drifts down to his hands, still clutching the bear.

Ilya watches him, jaw tight. “You should rest,” he says after a moment. “I will bring breakfast to you”

He stands, hesitates, then reaches out and briefly rests his hand on the back of Shane’s head—no stroking, no force. Just contact.

Shane doesn’t lean into it.

But he doesn’t pull away either.

Ilya leaves soon after, footsteps fading down the hall. Shane stays where he is, curled inward, bear clutched tight, the room quiet except for the low hum of the television he isn’t really watching.

He doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t think.

He just sits, suspended somewhere between before and after, waiting for himself to come back. He drifts to sleep. 

Awareness comes softly, as if the house itself is trying not to startle him.

Shane is still where he’d curled up after the call with his parents, hoodie bunched around his shoulders, teddy bear trapped between his chest and the couch cushion like a lifeline. He’s awake when they come in, but only just—eyes open, unfocused, tracking movement without really seeing it.

Ilya pauses in the doorway when he sees him like that.

For a second, his expression hardens into something annoyed, defensive. Then it fades, replaced with something closer to resignation. “He’s awake,” he mutters under his breath.

Marley says nothing, but he moves more quietly than usual as he sets a plate down on the coffee table. Eggs, toast. Familiar. Intentional.

Ilya crouches in front of Shane instead of towering over him this time. He sets a glass of juice within reach, careful not to bump Shane’s knees. “Breakfast,” he says, not unkindly. “You need to eat.”

Shane doesn’t respond.

Ilya watches him for a long moment, then reaches out and gently places the teddy bear back into Shane’s arms where it’s slipped loose. Shane’s fingers curl around it immediately, automatic, like muscle memory.

Marley leans against the wall, arms crossed. He’s quieter than usual too, eyes lingering on the way Shane hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even looked up. “He was better,” Marley says finally. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.

“I know,” Ilya replies.

The silence stretches.

Neither of them says what they’re both thinking—that weeks ago, Shane screamed and fought and tried to run, and now he doesn’t do much of anything at all. That compliance is easier to manage, but this… this hollowed-out version sits wrong in the chest.

Ilya reaches out and nudges the plate a little closer. “Eat a few bites,” he says. “Then you can sit. Read. Draw. Whatever you want.”

Shane blinks slowly, processing the words. After a moment, he reaches out with one hand—still clutching the bear in the other—and breaks off a small piece of toast. He eats it mechanically, chewing without enthusiasm.

“There,” Marley says quietly. “See? He’s listening.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s here,” Ilya answers.

Shane finishes a few bites before stopping, shoulders sagging as if even that small effort costs him. No one pushes him further. Ilya gathers the plate once Shane’s attention drifts again, setting it aside without comment.

He settles onto the couch near Shane, close enough to be solid but not touching. Marley turns on the television, an English-subtitled program Shane’s watched before, keeping the volume low.

For a while, the three of them exist in uneasy calm.

Shane stares at the screen, teddy bear tucked under his chin, breathing slow and shallow. Ilya watches him from the corner of his eye, jaw tight, fingers flexing against his knee.

“Didn’t want it this way,” Marley mutters eventually.

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quiet. “No. But wanting does not change what must be done.”

Still, when Shane shifts slightly and lets out a small, unconscious whine in his sleep later, both men look over at him at the same time.

And neither of them tells him to be quiet.

The sound is small. Almost nothing.

A soft ding from the laptop on the table.

Marley is the first to notice it. He glances down at the screen, frowns for half a second, then straightens. “Ilya.”

Ilya crosses the room in three long strides. He leans over the laptop, eyes scanning fast. Then he stills.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then he lets out a sharp laugh—short, incredulous—and slaps his hand on the table. “There it is.”

Marley peers over his shoulder. His eyebrows shoot up. “One million. Just now.”

Ilya exhales, long and satisfied, and straightens fully. “Six,” he says, savoring the word. “All of it.”

Marley grins, the tension bleeding out of his posture all at once. He claps Ilya on the shoulder, hard. “Took him long enough.”

Ilya laughs again, louder this time, a rare, unguarded sound. He pours himself a drink, then another, shoving one into Marley’s hand. They clink glasses without ceremony.

From the couch, Shane watches. Their loud celebration startled him awake quickly. 

He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t smile. He just watches them celebrate with wide, cautious eyes, teddy bear hugged tight to his chest. He understands enough now to know this matters. Money always matters to them.

After a moment, he gathers what little courage he has left.

“Do I get to go home?” he asks.

His voice is quiet. Hoarse. Hopeful in a way that hurts to hear.

The room stills just a fraction.

Ilya turns to look at him.

For once, his expression is warm. Not fake-warm, not threatening—almost genuinely pleased. He walks over and crouches in front of Shane again, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Yes,” Ilya says, smiling. “Soon.”

Shane’s shoulders sag with relief so strong it almost knocks the breath from him. He nods quickly, clutching the bear tighter, as if afraid the word might disappear if he doesn’t hold onto it.

“S-soon,” he repeats, like he needs to hear it twice.

Ilya reaches out and ruffles his hair, gentler than he has any right to be. “You did good,” he says. “Very good.”

Marley watches from the kitchen, drink in hand, expression unreadable. “We’ll make the call tonight,” he says. “Let them know the debt is settled.”

Ilya nods, eyes still on Shane. “Yes. We will.”

Shane curls inward on the couch, exhaustion crashing over him now that the fear has loosened its grip just a little. He lets himself believe it—for now.

Soon.

He doesn’t notice the way Ilya’s smile fades once he turns away, or the look Marley gives him across the room.

Soon, in their world, is a flexible word.

The mood in the house shifts—not lighter, exactly, but sharper. Purposeful.

Maps come up on the laptop. Flight times. Connections. Marley scrolls while Ilya paces, phone in hand, already thinking three steps ahead. They speak in quick, efficient Russian, the cadence clipped and businesslike in a way Shane has learned to recognize.

This is planning. Movement. Change.

Shane sits on the couch with his knees pulled to his chest, teddy bear tucked under his arm, watching them with cautious attention. He perks up every time he hears his name, even if he doesn’t understand the rest.

“When do we leave?” he asks finally. “Is it today?”

Neither man answers him right away.

Marley keeps scrolling. Ilya keeps pacing.

“Soon,” Ilya says at last, the same word as before, tossed over his shoulder.

Shane swallows. “Like… soon-soon? Or—do I get to talk to my parents again first?”

Ilya stops pacing. He looks at Shane for a long moment, measuring him, then turns back to his phone without responding.

That silence tells Shane everything he needs to know.

He falls quiet again, fingers worrying at the seam of his hoodie. He doesn’t push. He’s learned what happens when he pushes. Instead, he listens as Marley mutters about passports, about routes that don’t double back the same way they came, about how airports are easier when people expect you to be there.

“He’ll be easier this time,” Marley says casually, not bothering to lower his voice. “He knows where he’s going now.”

Ilya hums in agreement. “Yes. No panic. No scenes.”

Shane’s stomach flips—not with fear this time, but with something fragile and tentative. Home. That’s what they mean. He tells himself that’s what they mean.

Ilya’s phone buzzes. He glances down, then types quickly.

Money received.
Do not contact authorities.
Wait for instructions.

He sends it before Yuna can respond.

Across the room, Shane watches his thumbs move over the screen. “That was my mom?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” Ilya says without looking up.

“When will she know when I’m coming back?”

Ilya finally looks at him then. His expression isn’t cruel, but it’s closed. Controlled. “When she needs to know.”

Shane nods, even though his chest feels tight. He hugs the bear closer and tells himself that this is just part of it. That adults handle logistics. That being kept in the dark doesn’t mean anything bad—just that things are complicated.

Marley shuts the laptop with a decisive snap. “We’ll need another day,” he says. “Maybe two.”

Shane’s head lifts. “Two days?”

Ilya gives him a thin smile. “You have waited this long. You can wait little more.”

Shane hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”

He means it. Or he tries to.

As Ilya and Marley move deeper into planning—voices low, words sharp—Shane curls into the corner of the couch, hope and unease tangling together in his chest. He’s being taken somewhere again. He knows that much.

He just doesn’t know when.
Or how.
Or why the waiting suddenly feels heavier now that the money’s been paid.

The two days crawl.

They don’t blur together the way the first weeks did. Every hour feels counted, weighed, stretched thin.

Shane tries to keep his routine because it’s the only thing that makes the time feel real. He wakes early, showers, pulls on the too-big hoodie. He does his stretches behind the couch, slower than before, constantly glancing toward the kitchen or the hallway as if someone might suddenly say now. He eats when food is put in front of him, reads a few pages at a time without absorbing much, doodles aimless shapes in his notebook.

And he asks questions.

At first, he tries to be careful about it.

“When do we leave?”
“Is it today or tomorrow?”
“Are we flying again?”

Ilya answers vaguely. Marley doesn’t answer at all.

As the hours stack up and nothing changes, the questions slip out more often, less controlled.

“You said soon,” Shane murmurs from the couch. “should I pack? You’re not… you’re not mad at me, right?”

The fear creeps back in sideways, not as panic but as a constant pressure behind his ribs. Every delay feels like a mistake he’s made without realizing it. He replays every interaction in his head, wondering where he went wrong, what rule he broke without being told.

By the second morning, the questions come faster.

“You’re really taking me home, right?”
“You’re not going to hurt me again?”
“Did my mom say something?”

He hates himself for asking even as the words leave his mouth. He hates the way his voice sounds—too tight, too thin. He watches Ilya’s jaw tense, Marley’s shoulders stiffen, and he knows he should stop.

But he can’t.

If he stops asking, it feels like admitting the answers don’t exist.

By the afternoon of the second day, the air in the house feels brittle. Shane paces instead of sitting. He hovers near Ilya when he moves from room to room, quiet but visibly anxious, hands twisting in the hem of his hoodie.

“We’re leaving soon, right?” Shane asks again. “You promise?”

That’s when it happens.

Ilya turns sharply, faster than Shane expects. The slap is quick, sharp, ringing. Shane’s head snaps to the side before his brain catches up, and then Ilya’s hand is over his mouth, cutting off the startled sound in his throat.

“You quiet now, yes?” Ilya snaps.

Shane freezes.

Ilya grips his jaw, tilting his head and forcing it up and down in a mock nod. His voice shifts into a cruel, exaggerated Canadian lilt. “Yes, Ilya, I’ll be good boy and stop asking stupid questions.”

The words don’t even fully register. Shane’s eyes are wide, unfocused, his body locked in place like something has flipped a switch inside him.

When Ilya finally releases him, Shane doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe noticeably.

Doesn’t blink.

“Quiet?” Ilya prompts, watching him closely now.

There’s a long, terrifying pause before Shane’s lips part.

“Yes,” he whispers. The word comes out flat. Empty.

Ilya exhales, irritation bleeding away. “Good,” he mutters, turning away.

Shane stays where he is, frozen long after the moment passes. No more questions rise to his tongue. No more routines feel important.

Hope doesn’t disappear—but it goes very still, tucked deep inside him, fragile and afraid to make a sound.

Shane wakes before the light has fully settled into the room.

For a few confused seconds, he waits for the usual sounds—the low murmur of Russian from the kitchen, the clink of dishes, Marley’s heavy footsteps pacing the hall. There’s nothing. Just quiet. Real quiet. The kind that presses against his ears.

He sits up slowly, blanket sliding off his lap, and pulls the teddy bear into his hands without really thinking about it. His fingers find the edge of one ear and trace the seam again and again, grounding himself in the familiar texture. He knows it’s stupid. He knows if anyone back home saw him clutching a toy like this they’d laugh.

But here, it’s kept him from falling apart more than once.

His mind drifts despite himself.

Maybe today.
Maybe this is it.

He pictures his mom’s kitchen. The smell of coffee. His own bed. The gym. Campus. Ordinary things that feel impossibly far away now. His chest tightens—not panic exactly, but anticipation so sharp it almost hurts.

The door opens.

Shane startles, bear clutched to his chest, eyes snapping to the doorway.

Ilya stands there, fully dressed, coat already on, a grin spreading across his face that Shane hasn’t seen before. Not tight. Not mocking. Almost… pleased.

“Time for us to go, Shane.”

For a second, Shane can’t make sense of the words. His mouth opens, then closes again. His heart begins to pound, loud enough he’s sure they can hear it.

“Go?” he asks quietly.

Ilya steps into the room and tosses a duffel bag onto the bed. “Pack your things.”

Shane stares at the bag like it might disappear if he blinks. “All of them?”

“All,” Ilya confirms.

He crouches, reaches down, and unlocks the cuff around Shane’s ankle. The click is soft but unmistakable. The chain loosens. Gone.

Shane’s breath hitches.

“Pack,” Ilya repeats, already turning toward the door. “Meet us in kitchen.”

He leaves the door open behind him.

Shane sits there for a long moment after he’s gone, frozen in place, bear still in his hands. Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid the moment might break, he slides his foot off the bed and places it on the floor.

Nothing happens.

He swallows hard and starts to pack.

The hoodie. The books. The notebook and pencils. The little fidget cube. He hesitates only briefly before tucking the bear into the bag last, pressing it down gently so it won’t get crushed.

When he slings the bag over his shoulder and steps into the hallway, his legs feel unsteady—but he’s upright. Moving.

In the kitchen, Ilya and Marley are already waiting. Marley tosses him a granola bar before they guide him out the house.

And for the first time in days, Shane lets himself believe that soon might finally mean something real.

Shane barely registers the world outside the car windows. Trees, buildings, passing cars—all blur together into a moving gray smear. His stomach twists from nerves, anticipation, and the long weeks of fear, but he forces himself to chew the granola bar, small bites at a time, fingers still wrapped tightly around the stress cube.

Ilya is in the backseat, close enough that Shane can feel his presence, but he doesn’t speak. His hands rest casually on his knees, eyes forward, watching the road in front. The quiet between them hums with unspoken rules: Shane eats, stays seated, and doesn’t speak unless prompted.

The radio blares another song. The sound is too loud, too sharp. Shane presses the cube harder, teeth gnawing at the wrapper of the granola bar, trying to drown out the buzzing.

Marley hums along to the music in the front seat, foot tapping on the pedal. Every bump in the road sends a jolt through the car and through Shane’s chest. He flinches at each one, but doesn’t cry. Not yet. Not in front of them.

Ilya notices, of course. He shifts slightly, just enough to brush Shane’s shoulder, a grounding gesture more than comfort. Shane stiffens, but the presence—steady, solid—pulls his racing thoughts back from the edges of panic.

Minutes stretch into miles. The airport approaches, and Shane feels the familiar spike of anxiety: another plane. Another loss of control. But the difference now is subtle: he’s calmer, or at least trying. The granola bar dwindles, the cube feels smooth and reassuring under his fingers, and he focuses on the simple, repetitive motions to keep himself from thinking too much.

Behind him, Ilya watches quietly. He doesn’t need to say anything; Shane is behaving as expected. And for now, that’s enough.

Ilya turns toward him slowly, the movement deliberate. The music keeps blaring, but it feels distant now, like it’s happening in another car entirely.

He studies Shane for a long moment, eyes sharp and assessing, as if weighing him.

“We take you home now,” Ilya says at last. His voice is low, even. “You make scene, draw attention—you may not get home. You understand this, yes?”

Shane’s throat tightens. His fingers still on the cube, he nods quickly. “I understand.”

“Say it.”

“I’ll be good,” Shane says, quiet but immediate. “I won’t make a scene.”

Ilya watches him another second, then reaches into his pocket.

Shane’s eyes flick down. His stomach drops. “I—I don’t need it,” he blurts out, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m okay. I swear, I’m fine. I won’t panic. I won’t—”

“I decide what you need,” Ilya cuts in.

Before Shane can lean away, Ilya’s arm comes around his shoulders, firm and unyielding. His other hand cups Shane’s jaw, thumb pressing until his mouth opens in reflex. The motion is practiced, efficient. There’s no anger in it. No hesitation either.

The pill is in. Ilya’s hand stays there just long enough to make sure Shane swallows.

Shane does.

He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t spit it out. He swallows because fighting has never helped, and because somewhere deep down he’s learned that obedience keeps things from getting worse.

“Good,” Ilya murmurs, releasing him and straightening as if nothing unusual has happened. “This will make it easier.”

Shane slumps back against the seat, heart pounding, the familiar dread settling in as he waits for the medication to take hold. His thoughts begin to soften around the edges, fear blurring into something heavier, slower.

He clutches the cube tighter and stares out the window, telling himself the same thing over and over like a mantra.

Home.
I’m going home.

Even as the drug starts to pull him under, he holds onto that word as hard as he can.

The airport moves around them like a fast-forwarded scene—faces, carts, announcements—blurred into one continuous gray tide. Shane’s hand is clamped tightly in Ilya’s, fingers interlaced, knuckles white. It’s his anchor, the only constant in the chaos. Without it, he thinks, he would float away into panic.

Marley hustles through the terminal, grabbing food for all three. Shane nibbles mechanically, swallowing small bites as Ilya keeps one hand lightly pressed on his back, guiding him along. The noise, the people, the smells—it all presses in, but the rhythm of Ilya’s presence is steady enough to hold him in place.

Boarding passes without a hitch. Shane’s seat is directly next to Ilya’s, and every time a pill is offered, Shane swallows without resistance, obeying the silent rules he’s learned. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t cry, doesn’t flinch—just moves as instructed. His body is calm in a way he hasn’t felt for weeks, numbed by both obedience and the drugs.

Ilya leans close once they’re settled. “We stop in Boston for layover. You do as I say, yes?” Shane nods, words caught somewhere in his throat. He doesn’t question. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see what happens if he does.

When the plane lands, Shane’s heart jumps—not with fear this time, but with anxious anticipation. The jet bridge, the sounds of luggage, the swirl of passengers—all foreign yet familiar. He doesn’t try to step away. He can’t. Ilya keeps a firm grip on his hand, guiding him, and the two Russians flank him like sentinels.

They don’t stop at the gate. Instead, they shepherd Shane directly out of the airport and toward a black car waiting quietly outside. Shane’s pulse quickens despite his calm exterior. Every sense screams that things are moving faster than he can process—but the hand in his is steady, warm, immovable.

The car door opens. Shane steps inside, Ilya and Marley following. Ilya sits beside him again, thumb brushing along the back of Shane’s hand in a subtle, grounding motion. The engine hums. Tires roll. The city blurs past the windows.

For now, Shane does nothing but breathe, hold the hand he’s been told to trust, and let the journey carry him forward. The next steps are unknown, but for the first time in a long time, he feels a thread of fragile safety—fragile enough to cling to, fragile enough to hope.

Shane’s stomach twists as the car speeds away from the airport. His gaze flicks between the passing lights and Ilya’s face, trying to read him, but the man’s expression is closed—calm, unreadable, untouched by emotion. The hand in his feels solid, reassuring, but it also presses a weight into Shane’s chest he can’t quite describe.

“I thought… this was a layover,” Shane whispers through the fog in his head, words slow and heavy from the drugs. “Where… where are we going?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick briefly to Shane, then back to the road—or maybe nowhere at all. “We stay in Boston for now,” he says finally, deliberately vague. His tone is firm, unyielding. “You do not need to know more. You trust, yes?”

Shane swallows hard. He wants to argue, to push for answers, to make sense of the rhythm of instructions and pills and control—but the drugs cloud his thoughts, slow his tongue, blur the edges of reality. Every question feels heavy, as if it might pull something apart inside him.

“I… I don’t understand,” he murmurs, voice almost lost in the hum of the car engine.

Ilya squeezes his hand once, sharply but briefly, anchoring him. “Understand later. Now you stay quiet, yes? Make no scene.”

Shane nods, almost automatically. He presses his head lightly against the seatback, trying to let the numbing fog from the pills fill the gaps in his thoughts. He chews the inside of his cheek, fingers curling tighter around the cube in his lap. His mind latches onto one word and repeats it over and over like a mantra:

Soon… home… soon…

The car moves fast, city lights whipping by, and Shane holds onto Ilya’s hand as if it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away entirely. The uncertainty gnaws at him, but the combination of touch, drugs, and quiet command keeps him tethered, even when he doesn’t understand where “home” really is yet.

Shane drifts in and out of awareness, the hum of the car and the soft pressure of Ilya’s hand on his back pulling him toward sleep. When he finally blinks awake, the engine is off, and the world feels unnervingly still.

Ilya is already moving, purposeful and silent. Without a word, he bends down, his hands under Shane’s arms, and lifts him out of the car. Shane sways slightly, disoriented, blinking at the night sky above and then at the looming apartment building that stretches up before them. Its windows stare down like unblinking eyes.

“Quietly, inside,” Ilya instructs, his tone calm but commanding. Shane nods automatically, clinging to his hand for balance and guidance.

The lobby is dim, almost empty. Ilya guides him forward, the click of their shoes against the tile echoing faintly. The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and Shane steps inside, gripping Ilya’s hand tightly. The ride up is slow, and Shane’s pulse hammers in his chest with every floor that passes.

Finally, the doors open. Ilya moves swiftly, guiding Shane down a short hallway, stopping in front of a door. A quick turn of the key, a push, and Shane is ushered inside.

The room is sparsely furnished but clean. A bed sits against the far wall. Without hesitation, Ilya lifts Shane’s small bag and sets it aside before pulling him gently but firmly toward the bed. He tucks the blankets around Shane with methodical care, smoothing them over him.

“Sleep,” Ilya instructs, his voice low, steady, not unkind. Shane’s eyes flutter, exhaustion and drugs pulling him down faster than fear can rise.

He lies there, cocooned by the blankets and the faint, commanding presence of Ilya, and lets himself drift almost immediately into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

The week passes without shape.

No calls. No schedules. No explanations.

Shane wakes when his body tells him to wake and sleeps when the weight in his limbs becomes too heavy to carry. There’s food left out sometimes—sandwiches in the fridge, a bowl of cereal on the counter—but no one tells him when to eat or where to sit or what to do. Ilya and Marley move around him like he isn’t there, voices low, purposeful, existing in a parallel version of the same space.

He becomes quiet in a different way than before.

Not obedient. Not watchful.

Empty.

He drifts from room to room with the stupid fucking teddy bear clenched in both hands, fingers digging into the plush like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the floor. The apartment is clean and impersonal—neutral walls, borrowed furniture, nothing that feels lived in. There’s nowhere to settle, nowhere to belong.

He sits on the edge of the bed for hours. Stands at the window and watches traffic crawl past below. Paces the narrow stretch of hallway until his legs ache, then curls up on the couch without turning the TV on.

Without direction, time stretches into something viscous and slow.

He tries, once, to ask about his parents.

No one answers.

After that, he stops asking.

The absence hurts more than the threats ever did. When he was watched, controlled, corrected—at least he existed. Here, he feels like a shadow slipping along the walls, unnoticed and unnecessary. A bargaining chip that’s already been cashed in.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, he feels panic bubble up—sharp and sudden—but it has nowhere to go. No rules to follow. No reassurance to cling to. Just the slow, suffocating thought that maybe he’s been forgotten on purpose.

At night, he sleeps curled around the bear, cheek pressed into its worn fur, breath shallow. He dreams of airports and kitchens and his mother’s voice calling his name from another room, always just out of reach.

And sometimes—rarely—he looks up and catches Ilya watching him.

Not glaring. Not assessing.

Just watching.

Their eyes meet for a split second. Shane’s chest tightens, something fragile and hopeful flaring despite himself. But Ilya looks away immediately, jaw tightening, attention snapping back to his phone or the window or the door—anywhere but Shane.

Like noticing him was a mistake.

By the end of the week, Shane feels thinner. Lighter. Like if he stood still long enough, he might fade out of the apartment entirely and no one would notice until the door closed behind him for good.

Shane blinks himself fully awake, breath catching when he registers the shape at the edge of the bed.

Ilya.

Sitting there quietly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, watching him like he’s been there for a while.

Fear spikes first—sharp and instinctive—but something else pushes through it almost immediately. Relief. A fragile, guilty spark of excitement at finally being seen again after days of being treated like furniture.

He shifts closer without really thinking about it. Not touching. Just closing the distance until their knees almost line up. Like proximity alone might keep Ilya from disappearing again.

Ilya notices. Of course he does.

His mouth curves into a small smile, not cruel, not mocking. Measured.

“Your family is ready for your return.”

The words land hard. Shane’s chest tightens, eyes burning before he can stop it.

“I’m ready to go home,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t say it fast enough the opportunity will vanish. “I miss my mom and dad.”

Ilya nods once. “Yes.”

Then, after a beat, his expression shifts—subtle, but Shane catches it. The smile fades into something more thoughtful. More guarded.

“Problem is,” Ilya continues, voice calm, “your grandfather may make some poor choices once you are back.”

Shane frowns, confusion threading through the relief. “So what,” he says, a nervous edge creeping in, “you can’t just keep me forever… right?”

The question hangs there, heavier than he intended.

Ilya studies him for a long moment, dark eyes searching Shane’s face like he’s weighing something complicated and unpleasant.

“I am figuring out the best way to proceed,” Ilya says finally. “Your mama thinks I have hurt you. That makes people reckless.”

Shane swallows. His fingers twist into the hem of his hoodie. “She just… she worries.”

“I know.” Ilya exhales through his nose. Then, more firmly, “We will call later today so she knows you are alright.”

That—alright—feels like a stretch, but Shane nods anyway. Any contact is better than none. Any proof he still exists to them.

“Okay,” he says softly.

Ilya reaches out then, briefly, adjusting the blanket that’s slipped down Shane’s shoulder. The touch is careful, almost restrained, and gone a second later.

“Be patient,” Ilya says, standing. “I am trying to keep you safe.”

Shane watches him leave the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

He lies back against the pillow, heart racing, hope and dread twisting together so tightly he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Marley doesn’t give Shane time to brace himself.

Tape first—tight, efficient—pinning his wrists behind his back before he can ask a single question. The gag follows, shoved between his teeth and secured with practiced speed. It’s routine now, almost procedural, and that familiarity makes Shane’s stomach twist worse than the restraint itself. This isn’t improvisation. This is planned.

Ilya sets the laptop on the coffee table and adjusts the camera angle so Shane is fully in frame. Then he sits beside him on the couch, close enough that Shane can feel the heat of his leg through the cushions.

The call connects.

Yuna appears on screen—and breaks.

A raw, broken sound tears out of her the moment she sees Shane alive, bound, breathing. Relief crashes over her so violently she has to clutch the edge of the desk in front of her to stay upright. Tears stream down her face unchecked.

“Oh my God—Shane—Shane—” she sobs, words dissolving into crying. “I thought—they didn’t call, they didn’t answer, I thought they—”

Shane whimpers into the gag, eyes locked on her face. He strains forward instinctively, stopped short by the tape biting into his wrists.

David is there too, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful, one hand gripping Yuna’s shoulder like he’s afraid she’ll collapse.

Yuna leans closer to the camera, voice frantic. “Please. Please, you have the money, you have everything you asked for. Just tell us where to go. I’ll come myself. I’ll do anything. I’ll sign anything. Just give him back to us.”

She starts bargaining without even realizing it—locations, silence, lawyers, protection. Anything she can think of that might make this end.

Ilya waits until she runs out of breath.

Then he speaks, calm and unhurried, one hand resting possessively on Shane’s knee.

“No,” he says evenly. “You misunderstand situation.”

Yuna stills, dread creeping into her expression.

“Your father,” Ilya continues, “will want revenge once boy is home. He will convince himself he is powerful enough to punish me.”

David stiffens. “That won’t—”

Ilya cuts him off with a raised finger. “He is old. Sick. Frail. But men like this do not stop unless forced.”

Shane’s breathing quickens. His eyes dart between his parents on the screen and the man beside him, panic rising fast and sharp.

Ilya leans back slightly, utterly composed. “Yuna. David. You will make sure that he does not mess with my family again.”

Yuna shakes her head immediately, horror flooding her face. “No—no, I can’t—I won’t—he’s my father—”

“When he is dead,” Ilya says, voice flat, “Shane will come home.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Shane makes a broken sound into the gag, body going rigid. His eyes are wide, wet, pleading—please don’t, please don’t make this true—as he twists helplessly against the tape.

Yuna lets out a strangled cry. “You’re asking me to murder my own father!”

“I am telling you the only way your son survives long-term,” Ilya replies. “This is not punishment. This is prevention.”

David surges forward into frame. “You sick bastard—”

Ilya’s hand snaps up, gripping Shane’s jaw, forcing his face toward the camera. Not hard enough to injure. Just enough to make the point.

“Careful,” Ilya says quietly. “Your boy is already afraid.”

Shane’s breath comes in shallow, uneven pulls. Tears spill freely now, soaking into the gag as he shakes his head over and over, silently begging them not to agree, not to choose him at that cost.

Yuna covers her mouth with both hands, sobbing. “There has to be another way.”

Ilya’s gaze doesn’t waver. “There is not.”

The call ends a moment later—not because the decision is made, but because Ilya decides the pressure has been applied enough for now.

The screen goes black.

Shane slumps against the couch, muscles trembling, eyes unfocused. He feels like he’s fallen through the floor—like the idea of home has just been twisted into something monstrous and unreachable.

Ilya doesn’t untie him.

Not yet.

Shane doesn’t stop asking.

Once Ilya finally removes the tape and gag, it’s like something unravels in him. He trails after Ilya through the apartment—barefoot, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands, teddy bear dragged along by one ear—his voice small but relentless.

“What happens if she doesn’t?”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“How is my mom supposed to—how could she even—”
“What happens after? If she does it. Do I really get to go home?”

Ilya ignores the first few questions.

He moves through the apartment with deliberate calm, rinsing a mug, checking his phone, opening a window. Shane follows close enough that he nearly bumps into him when Ilya stops short in the kitchen.

“What happens if she doesn’t?” Shane asks again, more urgently now. His hands twist in the hem of his hoodie. “You said when. What if she can’t?”

Ilya turns slowly.

Shane freezes. The man’s expression isn’t angry—but it isn’t gentle either. It’s measured, assessing, like Shane is a problem that needs to be solved efficiently.

“She will,” Ilya says.

“That’s not an answer,” Shane whispers. “You’re asking her to kill her father.”

Ilya studies him for a long moment. Then he steps forward so they’re closer —not kind, not cruel, just intentional.

“Listen to me,” he says. “Your grandfather is dangerous man. He made choices. Many choices. This is consequence.”

Shane’s throat tightens. “But my mom—she’s not like you. She’s not—she can’t just—”

“She will learn,” Ilya replies evenly. “Or she will lose you.”

The words hit harder than a slap.

Shane staggers back a step. “That’s not fair.”

Ilya straightens. “Life is not fair.”

Shane’s breathing starts to go uneven. “And if she does it? If she—if he dies?” His voice cracks on the word. “Then what?”

Ilya exhales through his nose, like this part bores him.

“Then you go home,” he says. “You see your mama. You sleep in your bed. This chapter ends.”

“And you just—let me go?” Shane presses. “You don’t change your mind? You don’t decide something else?”

Ilya’s gaze sharpens. “Do not ask question you do not want answer to.”

That shuts Shane up—for a moment.

They stand there in silence. Shane stares at the floor, mind racing in terrified circles. Then, barely audible:

“What if she agrees… and then doesn’t do it? What if she lies?”

Ilya’s expression hardens.

“She will not,” he says. “And if she tries—” He cuts himself off, then looks directly at Shane. “—then you do not want to know what happens.”

Shane’s eyes fill again. He hugs the teddy bear to his chest, knuckles white.

“You’re making her choose between me and her dad,” he says. “That’s not a choice.”

Ilya doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he turns away, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Go sit,” he says. “You ask too many questions. It will not change outcome.”

Shane doesn’t move right away.

He watches Ilya’s back, the broad shoulders, the easy confidence of someone who believes the world bends when he applies pressure. Finally, Shane shuffles to the couch and curls in on himself, chin tucked into the bear’s fur.

The questions don’t stop.

He just learns which ones Ilya will never answer—and which ones make the silence feel even worse.

Twelve hours later, Ilya’s phone buzzes.

He’s seated at the small kitchen table, coffee gone cold at his elbow, when he glances down at the screen. A single image loads slowly.

A death certificate.

Official. Clinical. Impersonal in the way only paperwork can be when it reduces a life to dates, cause, and a signature at the bottom. Ilya studies it for a moment longer than necessary, then exhales and smiles faintly.

He never doubted her.

Across the apartment, Shane is curled up on the couch, half-asleep, hoodie pulled over his hands, teddy bear tucked tight beneath his chin. He startles at the sound of the chair scraping as Ilya stands.

“It is done,” Ilya says aloud—not to Shane, not really. Just stating a fact.

Shane lifts his head anyway. “What’s done?” His voice is hoarse from disuse, from fear. “Is— is my mom okay?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. He types a short reply, fingers precise.

Coordinates attached. Tomorrow. Noon. No police.

He sends it, then pockets the phone.

“Yes,” Ilya says finally. “Your mama is… effective.”

Shane’s stomach drops. He doesn’t want to ask the next question, but it tumbles out anyway. “Does that mean—?”

“It means,” Ilya interrupts, turning fully toward him now, “you are going home.”

For a second, Shane doesn’t react. The words don’t land properly, like a language he hasn’t heard in too long.

Then his breath catches. “Home?” he whispers. “Really?”

Ilya nods once. “I gave her place. I gave her time. You will be there.”

Shane’s hands start to shake. He presses them into the bear’s fur, grounding himself. “You’re not— you’re not changing your mind?”

“No.” Ilya’s tone is firm, almost gentle. “Deal is deal.”

Shane swallows hard. His eyes burn. “I get to see her?”

“Yes.”

“My dad too?”

“Yes.”

The tension that’s been coiled in Shane for weeks finally snaps—not into panic, but into something softer and more dangerous. Relief. His shoulders fold inward as he curls around the bear, forehead dropping to his knees.

“I wanna go now,” he breathes. “Please.”

Ilya watches him for a long moment. There’s no triumph in his expression. Just completion.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “You sleep now. Big day.”

He turns off the overhead light, leaving only the dim glow from the city bleeding in through the windows. As he passes the couch, he pauses, then—briefly—sets a hand on Shane’s shoulder. Not restraining. Not possessive.

Final.

Shane doesn’t pull away.

He clutches the teddy bear and lets himself believe it.

Tomorrow, he goes home.

Shane wakes before the sun.

It’s the first time in weeks his body hasn’t dragged him back under. He lies there staring at the ceiling, heart thudding too fast, energy buzzing through his limbs like static. Every few seconds the thought resurfaces—I’m going home—and his mouth pulls into a smile he can’t seem to stop.

He sits up. Swings his legs off the bed. Paces.

By the time Ilya appears in the doorway, Shane is already dressed, bear tucked under one arm, dufflebag clutched in the other. Ilya pauses, clearly taking in the barely-contained excitement radiating off him.

“Ready?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods immediately. “Yes. I’m ready.”

There’s no tape. No gag. No pills this morning. Just instructions—stay close, don’t draw attention—and then Marley’s grabbing the keys and they’re out the door.

The car ride feels endless and impossibly short all at once.

Boston fades behind them. Highways stretch out, gray and monotonous, mile markers ticking by like a countdown Shane can’t read fast enough. Music hums low on the radio. Marley drives. Ilya sits beside Shane in the back, arm stretched casually along the seat behind him.

Shane talks more than he has in days.

“How much longer?”
“Are we almost there?”
“Is Montreal close now?”

Ilya answers when he feels like it. Marley doesn’t bother. Shane doesn’t care. He presses his face to the window, watching trees blur past, feeling lighter with every mile north.

They stop once—for food, a nondescript place off the highway. Shane eats quickly, barely tasting it, hands shaking just enough that Ilya notices.

“Slow,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane tries. Fails. Smiles anyway.

Back in the car, the border passes without incident. Montreal feels familiar before Shane even sees it, like his body recognizes the place before his mind does. His chest aches with anticipation.

By the time they pull into the warehouse district, it’s just before eleven.

The building they stop at is massive and unremarkable—corrugated metal, loading bays closed tight, no signage. The kind of place no one looks at twice. Marley parks along the side, engine idling.

“This is it?” Shane asks softly.

“Yes,” Ilya says.

They don’t get out right away.

The car becomes a bubble of waiting. Shane bounces his knee, stops, forces himself still. He checks the time on the dash. 11:07. 11:19. 11:34.

“What happens at noon?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

Ilya watches the clock too. “At noon, your mama comes.”

Shane’s breath stutters. He presses his hands together, knuckles whitening. “She’s really coming?”

“She will be on time,” Ilya says, certain.

The minutes crawl.

At 11:58, Ilya straightens. Marley kills the engine.

“Noon,” Marley says quietly.

They step out into the cool air. The warehouse looms above them, silent. Shane stands between the two men, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, teddy bear tucked against his chest like a talisman.

The world holds its breath.

And then—
a car turns the corner at the end of the street.

Shane’s heart leaps into his throat as it slows, pulls up, stops a short distance away.

The driver’s door opens.

“Mom,” Shane whispers, before he even sees her clearly.

Everything else fades.

Shane sees his mother and that’s it.

His body moves before his brain can catch up—one foot forward, then another—but a hand snaps around his arm and yanks him back. Shane gasps, stumbling, heart slamming painfully against his ribs.

“No,” Ilya says quietly, grip firm. Not angry. Controlled. Final.

Shane freezes, breath coming in shallow, desperate pulls. He can see Yuna clearly now, hands flying to her mouth, tears already spilling down her face. David stands beside her, rigid, eyes red and rimmed with exhaustion, one arm braced around his wife as if she might collapse without it.

“Shane,” Yuna cries, her voice breaking on his name.

“I’m here,” Shane says instinctively, even though the words barely make it past the lump in his throat.

Ilya releases Shane’s arm only long enough to step forward, placing himself squarely between Shane and his parents. Marley hangs back, watchful, silent.

Ilya smooths a hand down the front of his jacket, almost relaxed.

“Yuna. David,” he says, polite. Almost cordial. “Thank you for your cooperation. This arrangement has gone… very smoothly.”

Yuna flinches at the word arrangement.

“You have been generous,” Ilya continues, as if discussing a business deal. “And I appreciate you sharing your son with me for the past month. He has been”—his eyes flick briefly to Shane—“well cared for.”

Shane’s stomach twists.

Ilya’s expression hardens just enough to make the air feel colder. “What happens here stays here. You do not speak of this. Not to police. Not to friends. Not to family. You do not look for me. If you do…” He lets the threat hang, unfinished and unmistakable. “I may have blood on my hands, but now you all do too. Let us part ways peacefully, yes?”

David nods stiffly. Yuna can only clutch his arm, tears streaming freely now.

Satisfied, Ilya steps back. His hand lifts from Shane’s shoulder.

“Go,” he says.

Shane doesn’t need to be told twice.

He breaks free and runs.

The distance feels impossibly long and then suddenly gone as he crashes into his mother’s arms. Yuna sobs openly, fingers digging into the back of his hoodie, holding him like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she lets go. Shane buries his face into her shoulder, breathing her in, shaking as the reality finally hits him.

“I’m home,” he chokes. “I’m home, I’m home—”

David wraps both of them up, one large hand cradling the back of Shane’s head, his own composure finally cracking as he presses a kiss into Shane’s hair.

“We’ve got you,” David says hoarsely. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Shane clings to them, tears soaking into familiar coats, the warehouse, the men behind him, the last month of fear all blurring into something distant and unreal.

For the first time since this began, no one is holding him back.

Epilogue

Shane learned, slowly, that safety did not arrive all at once.

It came in pieces.

It came in the way his bedroom door stayed open at night now, the hallway light left on without question. In the way his mother knocked—every time—before entering, even when he told her she didn’t have to. In the way his father started walking him to class again, pretending it was coincidence, pretending Shane didn’t notice how his eyes tracked every stranger that passed too close.

Weeks passed. Then more.

Shane went back to school part-time. Just two classes at first. He chose seats near exits without thinking about it, sat with his back to walls, kept his hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands. Some habits lingered. Others softened.

The gym came back into his life quietly. No pushing, no punishment—just movement. Stretching. Breathing. Relearning what it felt like to inhabit his own body without bracing for pain. The mirrors were hard at first. The faint scar on his cheek caught the light sometimes, a pale reminder he didn’t touch anymore. He didn’t need to.

Nights were the worst.

Some nights he slept through until morning, the kind of deep, dreamless rest he’d thought was gone forever. Other nights he woke with his heart racing, convinced for a split second that he wasn’t home—that a hand would clamp over his mouth, that a voice would tell him to be quiet.

Those nights, his mother came without being called. She sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed slow circles into his back until his breathing evened out. She never asked questions. Never told him it was over. She just stayed.

The teddy bear still lived on his bed.

He told himself it was temporary. That one day he’d put it away. But for now, it stayed tucked against the headboard, an anchor more than a comfort. Proof that even in the worst moments, something gentle had existed. That he had existed.

One afternoon, months later, Shane stood on the balcony outside their apartment with a mug of coffee warming his hands. Below him, the city moved the way it always had—cars, voices, life continuing without pause.

For the first time since everything had happened, his mind was quiet.

No counting exits.
No rehearsing obedience.
No waiting for the next command.

Just the sound of traffic. The warmth of the sun. The bitter taste of coffee he still drank too fast.

Shane smiled, small and surprised, when he realized he hadn’t thought about Ilya at all that morning.

Not once.

He finished his coffee, grabbed his bag, and headed for class—late, a little shaky, but moving forward.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.