The Kidnap

Chapter Two

The rain had eased but not stopped, thinning into a fine drizzle that slicked the pavement into black glass. Neon bled across the puddles in restless colors — pharmacy signs, a flickering bar logo, the faint red glow of a distant traffic light. It was past midnight, the hour when the city exhaled its last traces of energy and slouched toward sleep, but Anfisa’s shift had always ended late. Her shoes tapped against the wet stones in a rhythm softened by water, her breath steaming faintly in the damp air.

She walked with her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, her shoulders hunched against the drizzle. The little silver card still lay hidden in her apron, bundled now inside her bag. She had almost forgotten it while laughing at the café owner’s jokes, but now, alone on the street, it pressed on her mind again. What was it? Why would a man carry something so tiny and leave it behind? She told herself she’d set it aside at home, maybe find a way to return it if he ever came back. But some quiet instinct whispered that it wasn’t that simple.

Her boots carried her along the main road where lamps buzzed overhead, casting long pools of yellow light. A dog nosed through trash near the curb, shaking droplets from its fur. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and wet concrete.

“Anfisa?”

She stopped, startled, turning toward the voice.

From beneath the awning of a closed shop stepped Alan. His hood was pulled over his head, hair damp, but his grin was unmistakable — wide, a little reckless, the kind of grin that had gotten him into trouble more than once. He had been a friend since schooldays, one of the few who never seemed to vanish entirely from her life no matter how scattered things became.

“Alan,” she said, half-laughing with relief.

“What are you doing out this late?”

“Walking,”

he said simply, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“And you? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

“I just closed the café. Same as every night.”

“Yeah, right.”

He tilted his head, studying her with that easy, careless way of his.

“Place looked busy when I passed earlier. Blue lights and all. You all right?”

Anfisa’s stomach tightened.

“You saw the police?”

“Hard not to. Whole street lit up like a circus. Thought they’d shut you down for health violations or something.”

He grinned, then softened when she didn’t laugh.

“Hey, what happened?”

She shook her head, water dripping from her hairline.

“They said it was a routine check. But… it didn’t feel routine.”

Alan’s grin faded. He glanced around, lowering his voice as though the wet street might be listening.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

He leaned closer, breath clouding in the cold.

“There’s talk going around. Someone reported that the ghost — you know, the hidden figure, the one who leaks all the corruption crap — is somewhere in the city. Maybe even in this district. Police have been sweeping cafés, bars, anywhere someone might hole up.”

Anfisa blinked, the words sinking slowly. The hidden figure. The phantom people whispered about, the faceless shadow that pulled strings and exposed men in power. She had never believed half the rumors. That he had toppled a minister. That he had files on every officer in the city. That he never showed his face. But people loved stories, and the authorities loved fear.

“So that’s why,” she murmured.

Alan nodded.

“They’re desperate to catch him. You know how it is — makes them look weak, having some ghost bleed secrets everywhere. If they thought he was near, they’d turn the whole street inside out.”

She hugged her bag tighter, the strap digging into her shoulder.

“And you believe it? That he’s here?”

“Don’t know.”

Alan shrugged, the gesture exaggerated.

“But I know the raid wasn’t random. Someone tipped them off. They’re sniffing the ground hard.”

He gave her a sideways glance, trying to read her expression.

“Scared you, huh?”

“A little,” she admitted.

He chuckled, not unkindly.

“Don’t worry. You’re too ordinary to be caught up in that. They’re chasing phantoms, not waitresses.”

Ordinary. The word stung more than she expected, though it was true. She wasn’t anyone of note. She wasn’t clever with computers, wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t worth the notice of men with flashing lights and clipped voices. She was just Anfisa — apron, mop, long shifts, late walks home. And yet, her hand itched toward her bag where the forgotten card lay.

“I should get going,” she said quickly.

Alan raised a brow. “Already? I’ll walk you.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Come on, it’s late. And raining. And the ghost is on the loose.”

He waggled his brows, trying for humor.

She smiled faintly but shook her head.

“Really, I’ll be fine. You live the other way.”

Alan studied her for a moment longer, then sighed, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.

“Fine, fine. But at least promise me you’ll get home safe. Text me if anything weird happens, yeah?”

“I will, Guy, I walk to my apartment every single day usually at this time, this way..bruh”

“Good.Buddy” He reached out to squeeze her shoulder, warm even through the damp fabric of her coat.

“See you, Anfisa.”

She nodded, pulling her hood tighter as she turned away, boots splashing softly in shallow puddles.

Alan watched her for a few seconds, then disappeared into the opposite street.

Alone again, Anfisa walked on. The drizzle ticked against her hood, a steady rhythm. She counted her steps out of habit — one hundred from the café to the old pharmacy, another fifty to the corner where the streetlight flickered, another hundred toward the alley that cut behind the apartments.

Her thoughts circled Alan’s words, wrapping them around the shape of the night she had just lived through. The ghost, the hidden figure, here. She pictured the hooded man who had sat in the corner of the café, drinking coffee in silence. His voice low, his eyes pale as glass. He hadn’t looked like a legend, just a tired stranger. And yet—

Her hand brushed against the bag strap again, the card inside a reminder she didn’t want. She shook her head, forcing the thought away. It was just a lost thing, a scrap of nothing. She would put it aside at home, forget about it by morning.

The city clock chimed a quarter past twelve, echoing faintly through the damp streets.

12:15.

Anfisa drew her coat tighter and kept walking.

The drizzle thickened again, falling in silver threads beneath the lamps. The streets were nearly empty now, save for the occasional car humming past, its tires hissing through shallow water. Anfisa kept her head down, bag strap clutched close, her steps quickened without her noticing. Alan’s words still rang in her head: the ghost, the hidden figure, the raid that wasn’t routine. She tried to push it aside, but the memory of that hooded man at the corner table returned, pale eyes faintly luminous under the café lights.

Her chest tightened. He had left so quietly. Too quietly.

A shadow shifted at the mouth of an alley ahead. She thought nothing of it at first — just a trick of the lamps, just the rain dragging shapes down walls. But then the figure detached from the darkness. Tall. Hood drawn. Silent as if the city itself were holding its breath.

Her feet slowed.

The man stepped onto the sidewalk as if he had been waiting. The same coat, the same deliberate movement. Her pulse spiked in recognition before her mind fully caught up.

The café man.

She froze, instinct telling her to retreat, but her body too stiff to obey. His presence pressed down on her like the weight of the storm clouds above.

“You” he said.

His voice was quiet, flat, but it struck through the night like a blade.

Anfisa’s hand tightened around her bag instinctively.

“So-rry?” she stammered.

His gaze flicked to her coat pocket, then back to her face. No accusation, no heat, just knowledge.

“The card. Give it back., I forget it at the café table..and saw it's with you"

Every muscle in her body screamed to run, but her legs refused.

“It—it’s nothing. I was going to return it.”

“Now.”

She fumbled for words, for sense.

“It’s just a memory card—”

He took a step closer, and the space between them shrank until she could smell the damp fabric of his coat.

“Hurry”

Her breath hitched.

Then, from the opposite corner, a voice cut through the rain.

“Hey! Everything all right there?”

Anfisa’s head jerked toward the sound. A man — a night worker, maybe from the factory — had paused under a streetlamp, cigarette glowing faintly in his fingers. He squinted through the drizzle, watching the scene.

Valkyrie’s jaw tensed. His plan had been to retrieve the card quietly, walk away, erase the moment. But a witness shattered that option. The girl’s presence was no longer a loose end — it was evidence. His silhouette, her frightened face, another pair of eyes piecing it together.

Decision locked into place with a cold click.

He moved.

His hand closed around Anfisa’s arm, iron-strong, dragging her into the shadow of the alley.

She gasped, the sound breaking into a frightened cry.

“Let me go!”

Her other hand clawed at his wrist, nails scraping, body twisting violently against his grip.

“Quiet,” he hissed.

“Move.”

She shook her head, panic breaking through in choked sobs.

“Please—please, I didn’t do anything—”

The witness’s voice rose behind them.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”

Valkyrie shoved Anfisa deeper into the alley, every step calculated. He could hear the man starting forward, shoes slapping on wet stone, but the darkness swallowed them quicker than pursuit. The city’s veins were his. He knew every turn, every narrow passage where sound died and sight failed.

Anfisa thrashed, heels slipping on wet pavement. Her breath came in ragged sobs, heart hammering so violently it felt like it might break free from her chest. Tears blurred her vision. She tried to scream again, but his hand clamped over her mouth, cutting the sound short.

The witness shouted once more, closer this time. Then silence. By the time he reached the alley’s mouth, the figures were gone.

Dragged deeper into the labyrinth, Anfisa stumbled against slick walls, her shoulders knocking into cold brick. Valkyrie’s grip never loosened, unyielding as steel. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pushed her through a rusted door that groaned open and slammed behind them.

The noise echoed in the cavernous dark.

The space smelled of damp earth and metal. Pipes ran along the ceiling, dripping occasionally. A single bulb flickered overhead, its weak light casting more shadow than illumination. It was not a home — not in any sense she knew — but it was hidden. A pocket carved into the city where the world outside could not intrude.

He released her only enough to let her breathe. She collapsed against the wall, hands shaking uncontrollably, her back scraping cold brick. Tears streaked her face, hair plastered to her cheeks.

Her voice broke through in a whisper.

“Why… why are you doing this?”

He stood before her, calm, coat dripping, hood shadowing his pale eyes. His expression was not cruel, not heated — only clinical, as if she were a problem on a page to be solved.

“You saw nothing. You know nothing. That is the only way you survive.”

She shook her head violently, words tumbling out.

“I swear I don’t know anything! I—I just found it, I didn’t look at it, I didn’t—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it carried like a blade against her skin.

“From the moment you touched it, you became part of it. That’s enough.”

Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. She pressed herself tighter to the wall, wishing she could melt into it, vanish.

“Listen carefully.”

His tone shifted, colder, more formal.

“You were seen with me. Which means if they find you, they will use you to find me. Do you understand what that means?”

She tried to speak, but her throat locked.

“It means,”

he continued,

“that your life is no longer yours. You keep silent, you do exactly as I say, you may see daylight again. You falter once—”

He let the silence finish the threat, his eyes unblinking.

Tears welled hot again, spilling down her cheeks. She nodded quickly, unable to form words.

“Good.”

For a moment, there was only the dripping of the pipes, the faint hum of the bulb.

Then, with sudden desperation, Anfisa bolted.

Her shoes slapped against the concrete, echoing wildly. She didn’t think, didn’t plan — just ran, heart thundering, breath tearing from her throat. The exit door loomed ahead, rusted and heavy, but it was a door, and beyond it was freedom.

She reached for it—

His hand caught her arm mid-stride, yanking her backward so violently her shoulder burned. She let out a sharp cry, twisting, clawing at him with both hands. Nails raked across his skin, the sound of fabric tearing. She fought like a trapped animal, wild with fear.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

“Enough.”

His voice cracked like a whip.

But she didn’t stop.

His patience snapped. He pinned her against the wall with brutal efficiency, one arm across her chest, the other locking her wrists. She struggled, tears streaming, sobs muffled against the cold brick.

The bulb flickered above them.

“Do you want to die here?”

he demanded, voice low, lethal.

“Because if you keep this up, that is exactly what will happen.”

Her body shook violently, but she could not answer. The sobs came in broken waves, her breath catching on every one.

He leaned close enough that his words cut into her ear.

“You think you can run into the street now? You think you can scream for help? You already saw — someone saw us. And what did that buy you? Nothing. He’ll tell them what he saw, but we’re already gone. He cannot save you. No one can.”

The finality in his tone crushed her resistance. She sagged against the wall, trembling, wrists still locked in his grip.

He studied her a long moment, eyes flat and unreadable. Then he released her slightly, just enough to let her breathe without choking.

“You made this worse,”

he said evenly.

“I wanted answers. Instead, you chose fear. That’s on you.”

Anfisa slid down the wall to the floor, hugging her knees, silent but for her uneven breaths. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, too afraid to meet his.

Valkyrie turned, scanning the small space, already fitting her into the logistics of his life. She was a variable now, one he hadn’t chosen but one he would control. His mind ticked through contingencies: the witness, the search, the card.

He would keep her here, at least for now.

Not because he wanted to.

Because she had left him no other option.

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drip of water from a pipe overhead. The storm outside muffled the city, sealing them in this dim, cold pocket of concrete and shadow.

Valkyrie crouched at the narrow steel table bolted to the wall, pulling the small silver card from his coat pocket at last. It gleamed faintly in the weak bulb-light as he slid it into a device no larger than his palm — unmarked, black, almost featureless. The screen blinked to life, its glow painting sharp lines across his pale face.

Lines of folders appeared, each one coded, nested, disguised. His fingers moved with practiced precision, scrolling, opening, closing. Relief flickered in the smallest tightening of his jaw: intact. Every file accounted for. The ministers, the businessmen, the contracts — the rot that bled through the city. All still there.

Behind him, Anfisa curled against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. The tears hadn’t stopped, though they came quieter now, sobs dwindling into small, broken hiccups. Her palms were raw from clawing at his hands, her wrists sore where his grip had held her. She had never known fear could feel this endless, stretching across every breath, every second.

He didn’t turn to look. He didn’t care.

When he was certain the files were secure, he pulled the card free and tucked it into an inner pocket. Then, without a word, he rose, crossed the space, and dropped a thin, gray blanket over her like one might cover a piece of furniture.

The fabric startled her at first. She clutched it to her chest, trembling, realizing it was the only barrier between her body and the damp chill of the floor. He hadn’t offered it out of kindness. It was practicality. Keeping her alive was easier than dealing with her collapse.

Through blurred vision, she peered at him cautiously. His hood shadowed most of his face, but the light caught enough. Skin pale, almost bloodless in the flicker. Eyes startling — light silver, like frost stretching across glass, sharp enough to catch her in place even from across the room. His jaw was clean-shaven, his expression carved from stone. He looked… older than her, older than the boys she knew, older than Alan with his reckless grin. But not old. Mid-thirties, maybe. She couldn’t be sure.

She looked away quickly, pulling the blanket higher as if it could hide her from that gaze. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing.

He studied her for a moment, unreadable. Then he spoke, voice flat, controlled.

“You’ll stay here tonight.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t answer.

“Tomorrow,”

he continued,

“I’ll know more. If it’s safe, you’ll leave. If it isn’t, you won’t. That’s all.”

The words hit like blows: If it’s safe, you’ll leave. She wanted to seize on them, wanted to believe in them. But she caught the unspoken half as well — If it isn’t, you won’t.

She tightened her grip on the blanket, silent.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“You want to survive? Then listen. I’ll check the streets tomorrow. I’ll know if your name is being whispered, if your face has been tied to mine. If it hasn’t, you walk away. If it has…”

He let the sentence hang in the damp air.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Fear lodged too thickly in her throat.

Valkyrie stepped closer, his shadow falling long across the floor.

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all this is. Don’t mistake it for more.”

Her eyes lifted to him just briefly, searching for something human, some crack in the ice. But his gaze was merciless, silver irises catching what little light there was and throwing it back cold.

She dropped her eyes again. The blanket itched against her skin. She curled smaller, pressing herself into the corner. Silent.

Valkyrie returned to the table, sitting with his back to her, scanning the device once more. Every movement was deliberate, as if the world outside didn’t exist, as if she weren’t there.

Anfisa stared at the uneven floor, heart hammering, tears drying sticky on her cheeks. Her mind wanted to scream, to run, to fight again — but her body wouldn’t obey. She was too ordinary. Too small.

And he had made his point.

Tomorrow would decide everything.

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