The quiet in the small apartment felt like a heavy weight on Anya. Dust floated in the dim afternoon light coming through the dirty window. Two days. Just two days since her father, Viktor, fell at the docks, his heart stopping without a sign. Gone. Just like that.
Anya ran her finger along the edge of a cardboard box. Packing. That was all she had left. Packing up a life that didn’t feel like hers anymore. Their tiny place looked out over the grey waterfront. Cranes stood tall like bony giants under the cloudy sky. Her father had worked there, leading his small crew. Now, he was only ashes waiting to be spread.
Nineteen years old. No parents. Alone. The words rang in the silence, each one a sharp pain of sadness and fear.
A loud knock on the door made her jump. Too loud, too pushy for a neighbor. Her heart raced fast.
She paused, her hand near the doorknob. Another knock, even harder. Angry.
With a shaky breath, Anya opened the door just a little. A tall, wide man stood there in a suit so black it seemed to swallow the light. His face was tough, eyes cold like ice. Two other big men stood with him, looking just as scary, filling the narrow hall.
"Anya Petrova?" the man in the middle asked. His voice was low, steady, but had a hard edge that made her shiver.
"Yes?" Her voice was almost a whisper.
"I am Mikhail Morozov. Call me Misha." He didn’t shake hands or smile. His eyes looked past her, seeing the boxes, the cheap furniture, the clear poverty of the place. "Can we come in?" It didn’t sound like a real question.
Anya stepped back, holding her old sweater tight around her. The three men walked in, their fancy leather shoes quiet on the worn floor. They made the small living room feel tiny.
"I’m sorry about your father," Misha said, but his words felt empty, like he practiced them. He didn’t wait long. "Viktor Petrov owed a big debt to my boss, Mr. Damien Volkov."
Anya stared at him, confused. Debt? Her father always grumbled about money, but... "What debt?"
"Two million dollars," Misha said without feeling. He nodded slightly, and one of the guards stepped up, putting a smooth leather folder on the shaky coffee table.
Misha opened it, showing neat papers. Loan papers. Lists of numbers. Viktor’s messy signature at the bottom of many pages.
"Gambling," Misha said, his voice flat. "Some bad business deals Mr. Volkov was nice enough to pay for. The debt is still there."
Two million dollars. The amount was huge, impossible. It felt like a death threat hanging in the air. "I... I don’t get it. We have nothing. This apartment is rented. There’s no money." Fear started to choke her.
Misha’s cold eyes locked on her. "Mr. Volkov knows your money problems well. Your father knew the rules. When you don’t have things to pay with, other plans are made."
"Other plans?" Anya repeated, a sick feeling growing in her stomach.
He looked her up and down, slow and judging. It wasn’t lustful, just... like he was checking the value of something. Like she was an animal at market.
"The debt must be paid, Miss Petrova. Since you have no money, your father gave... something else." He stopped, letting the word sit heavy. "You are that something. You are the payment."
The room spun. She couldn’t breathe. "What? No. That’s... that’s not possible! He wouldn’t..."
"He did." Misha’s voice turned sharp, cutting her off. "The papers are clear. His debt is now yours. And you are how it will be paid."
"No!" The word burst from her, raw with shock and fear. "You can’t just... take me!"
"We can. We are." Misha closed the folder with a snap. The sound felt final, like a judge’s hammer. "You have five minutes. Pack one small bag. Only what you need."
"Five minutes?" Tears burned her eyes, hot and painful. "Where are you taking me?"
"You belong to Mr. Volkov now. That’s all you need to know." Misha checked his watch. "Five minutes."
One guard moved to the bedroom door, the other to the apartment exit. Trapped. No way out. The truth hit her hard, cold, and real.
Her legs felt heavy as she stumbled to the bedroom. Her hands shook so much she could hardly grab her things. What did she need? Toothbrush? Extra clothes? An old photo of her parents from better days? She stuffed random stuff into a small canvas bag, tears making everything blurry.
Her old life was disappearing, packed into boxes she’d never open. This man, Misha, was part of the Volkov Syndicate she’d only heard rumors about, the real power over the waterfront, the danger her father got mixed up in.
Time was up. Misha waited by the door, showing no emotion. Anya took one last look at the worn-out room, the only home she ever had. It felt strange now, like a place from someone else’s story.
Quietly, the guards walked her out, one ahead, one behind. Neighbors peeked through windows but looked away fast, not wanting trouble. Down the stairs, into the fading light. A shiny black car waited by the curb, its dark windows hiding everything. It looked rich and dangerous.
The back door opened. Misha pointed for her to get in.
Anya stopped, a sob stuck in her throat. This was it. The end of all she knew.
"Now, Miss Petrova," Misha’s voice was quiet but threatening.
With shaky legs, she slid onto the soft leather seat. The door shut with a heavy click, locking her fate. The car moved away smoothly, leaving her past in the grey afternoon. Trapped in the quiet luxury, Anya stared ahead, lost in fear of the unknown future with the man who now owned her father’s debt, and her.
