1
Rosalie
My eyelids stick, heavy as lead, and when I force them open, a harsh light stabs my eyes, a yellow glow that flickers above me, filtering through a yellowed lampshade, stained with burns.
I blink, my throat dry, a bitter taste on my tongue—chemical, metallic, as if I had sucked on a rusted battery. My fingers twitch, searching for something to grip, and they catch a rough fabric, a worn-out blanket that scrapes my skin, thrown over a thin mattress that reeks of stale sweat and dust. I’m on a bed, a rickety thing that creaks under my weight, not the sterile bed of the SSR, not my wheelchair, not Léo’s grandparents’ house.
My heart pounds, a dull blow that shakes my ribs, and I force my body to react, to understand, but my legs—those damn dead things—remain inert, a useless weight that pins me down, that screams at me that I’m stuck, a prisoner of a body that still betrays me.
Nothing trembles anymore, nothing moves under my hips. It’s the void, a silence that chills me more than the room itself.
I turn my head, an effort that pulls at my neck, a pain that drills into my neck, and the room takes shape around me, blurry at first, then too sharp, too familiar in its chaos.
Walls covered in peeling, yellowed wallpaper, torn in places, revealing patches of plaster stained with mold. A worn wooden floor, scratched, littered with dust, crushed cigarette butts, an overturned glass lying in a corner.
A wobbly chair, dark wood, is pushed against a wall, and a closed door, solid wood, stares at me, its chipped varnish revealing gouges, as if someone had pounded on it, desperate.
A single window, its dirty panes, lets in a gray light through torn curtains, a dull day that barely illuminates. The smell is heavy, a mix of rotten wood, cold tobacco, and dampness that catches my throat, that makes me want to spit. My wheelchair has disappeared, vanished, and with it, the little freedom I had clawed back these past months—those hours of pushing my arms to exhaustion, proving to myself that I wasn’t finished.
They threw me here, on this rotten bed, like trash they abandon, and a cold sweat trickles down my back, soaking the thin fabric of my sweater, chilling my skin.
My hands grope, slow, clumsy, searching for a weapon, a clue, anything to regain control, and my fingers brush my thigh, stop on a sharp pain, a precise point that pulses under the torn fabric of my jogging pants. I lower my eyes, force my vision to pierce the fog that clouds me, and I see—a red mark, a fresh puncture, edged with a bruise that spreads like a black ink stain.
The syringe. The memory comes back in flashes, fragments that pound my skull—the grandparents’ house, the porch creaking under the wheels, the shadow moving too fast, the cloth over my mouth, that bitter taste that suffocates me, the cold that steals my strength. “Léo will be happy,” he had growled, that Russian, his voice rolling on the “r” like a beast’s growl. They caught me, drugged me, dragged me here, far from that ruin at the end of the town, far from my guns, far from Yann.
My breath quickens, a rattle that scrapes my dry throat, and I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms until the pain brings me back, keeps me awake, reminds me that I’m still here, still alive.
Where am I? Not the grandparents’ house, that’s for sure—I went there to trap him, to catch him off guard, not to get caught like an idiot.
A house, yeah, but not one I know.
The walls, the wood, the smell—it reeks of old, of abandonment, a place left to rot, a squat or a hideout.
My eyes scan the room again, search the dark corners, look for a detail, a sound, and I hear—a light creak, like steps on a worn floor, and a murmur, muffled, filtering through the wall, a deep voice, too low to catch the words, but that accent rolls, that “r” that hits, that brings me back to that bastard in the shadows.
The Russians.
Kostya, maybe, or his dogs.
And Léo?
He’s here, somewhere, pulling the strings, gloating while I rot here, while Yann...
Yann.
His name hits me, a blow to the gut, and a wave of panic overwhelms me, a scream that I hold back, that chokes in my chest.
The photos he sent me—Yann in the metro, his ribs bandaged, his face bruised; Yann on the docks, a knife in his hand, hunted by a massive shadow—then the photo of my parents, my sister pushing Dorothée on a swing in a park, all of it scrolls through my head, a horror movie on loop, that tears me apart.
Four days, he said, Léo, four days to yield or Yann dies.
But how long have I been asleep?
How long have they left me in this trunk, in this absolute darkness, before dumping me here?
My thoughts tangle, a chaos that pounds my temples, and I see my niece Dorothée again, her blonde curls, her laughter, my parents, their silent house—all so far, so fragile, so exposed if Léo decides to strike harder.
An acidic heat rises, a rage that burns my veins, and I growl, a raw sound that tears the silence, that brings me back to myself.
I force my arms, my muscles screaming with effort, a pain that drills into my shoulders, and I half sit up, my hands planted in the soft mattress, something that crumbles under my fingers like wet cardboard.
The room sways, a vertigo that hits me, a fog that makes me stagger, but I hold on, I refuse to fall back, to give in.
My eyes fall on a corner of the bed, where the blanket has lifted—a dark stain, old, embedded in the fabric, a brown that reeks of death, that chills my blood.
Someone else has been here, someone they broke, maybe killed, and now it’s my turn. But I’m not like them.
I’m not a victim who waits, who cries, who begs. I’m Rosalie, ex-cop, troublemaker, and Léo is going to feel it, even if I have to crawl to tear his throat out with my teeth.
A noise cuts me off, a sharp creak, the floor groaning, and the door trembles, a creak that echoes in the room like a stifled scream. A shadow takes shape in the doorway, massive, a silhouette that blocks the light, that swallows the space, and a voice growls, low, cold, that accent that still makes my hackles rise, that brings me back to the syringe, to the trunk.
“Get up, bitch. He wants to see you.”
My heart stops, a block of ice in my chest, and I stare at that shadow, my fists clenched, my rage boiling beneath the fear.
He.
Léo?
Kostya?
Someone else?
My thoughts tangle, a chaos that pounds my skull, but I lift my chin, a silent defiance in my eyes, and I scoff, a dry laugh that scrapes my throat.
—Get up? I let out, my voice hoarse, trembling with contempt. Asshole, didn’t they tell you I can’t walk?
The shadow advances, a refrigerator, a giant with a weathered face, squinted eyes under greasy hair, and my “asshole” makes him twitch.
His hand moves, quick, a backhand that slaps my cheek, a burn that lays me out faster than I sat up, my head hitting the mattress with a dull thud.
Stars explode in my eyes, a pain that pulses, but I clench my teeth, refusing to whimper, to give him that.
Another voice rises, higher, nervous, coming from behind him.
—Hey, man, wait, she’s right, she can’t walk, the girl!
The giant freezes, sizes me up, his eyes squinted as if he were judging a curious beast, and a smirk twists his mouth.
—A handicap, pff, he growls, a contempt that hits harder than his hand.
He comes closer, his big paws grabbing me under the arms, and he pulls me, without gentleness, like a sack of meat.
The pain tears my shoulder, a cry escapes me, a raw sound I can’t hold back, but he doesn’t care.
He scoffs, a greasy laugh that makes me want to spit in his face.
He tosses me over his shoulder, my body hanging like a mere pile of laundry, my dead legs swinging in the void, my head knocking against his massive back.
I don’t struggle—not yet.
It’s useless.
Not now.
Not with my strength crumbling.
Not with this vertigo still clinging to me.
I let him take me, my eyes searching the darkness that scrolls by, looking for a clue, an exit, while he drags me towards my enemy, towards the one who awaits me.
The hallway is narrow, a dark wood tunnel, walls that crumble, a smell of mildew that thickens with each step.
A weak light filters through a half-open door, a glow that dances on a scratched parquet, and I hear voices, murmurs that rise, a Russian growl that intertwines with a sharper, more cutting voice—Léo.
The giant pushes the door open with his shoulder, and the room opens before me, a large dilapidated space, a living room perhaps, with a gutted sofa, hanging curtains, a coffee table covered in full ashtrays and empty bottles.
A dead fireplace stands in a corner, blackened, silent, and the daylight pierces through a cracked bay window, casting twisted shadows on the floor.
We’re in a house, an abandoned shack, far from the city, far from everything.
He drops me without gentleness, and I fall, a shock that cuts my breath, my hips hitting the hard wood, a raw groan escaping me.
I prop myself up on my forearms, the pain radiating in my arms, and I lift my eyes.
A silhouette advances, tall, blond, a wrinkled suit but still too clean for this place, and I recognize him before he even speaks—Léo.
His blue eyes shine, a twisted glint, a mix of triumph and hatred, and a smile stretches his lips, a smirk that makes me want to tear his face off.
He stops two meters away, sizes me up, hands in his pockets, like a king looking at a dead dog.
—You took your time, Rosalie, he says, his voice low, a venom that drips in each word. You thought you could outsmart me, huh? The grandparents’ house, clever. But you’re not clever enough. You’re mine, now. And I won’t let you go again!
I scoff, a raw sound that tears my throat, and I spit on the ground, a silent defiance that makes him twitch.
—Yours? I let out, my voice trembling but hard. You’re nothing, Léo. A loser who plays big with Russians behind him. You need me drugged, nailed down, to feel strong? Pathetic. You won’t dump me again on my birthday.
His smile wavers, a crack in his mask, and he takes another step, his shoes clacking on the worn wood.
—Pathetic? Maybe. But you, you’re finished. And Yann... he’s going to suffer because of you. I have him in my sights, Rosie. He thinks he can take what’s mine, piss me off, steal my place, but he’s going to pay. And you, you’re my currency, my personal revenge... childhood friends, it turns out you were already sleeping with him when we were together! That bastard Yann!
Yann. His name gives me a cold sweat that trickles down my neck.
He wants to enrage him, break him by taking me back, by keeping me.
My fists clench, my nails digging into my palms, and I stare at him, my rage boiling, a fire that refuses to die out.
He leans in, his face a few centimeters from mine, his warm breath on my skin, and he murmurs, a smirk in his voice.
—You stay with me, Rosalie. Again. Like before. You become mine again, or I kill them—Yann, your niece, your old folks. All of them. You don’t have a choice anymore. I shouldn’t have left you, if I had known how much that dog cared about you... so were you already sleeping with him?
A shiver chills me, a blade that pierces me, and my eyes widen for a moment, before rage takes over. Dorothée, my parents—he dares to involve them in this, to put them in his line of fire.
I growl, a guttural sound that rises from my throat, and I spit again, a gob that nearly hits his shoes.
—You touch any one of them, and I’ll make you eat your teeth, Léo. You’re not a man, you’re a jealous piece of shit.
He scoffs, a cold laugh that echoes in the room, and he straightens up, glancing over his shoulder. The giant is there, near the door, a gun tucked in his belt, and another shadow moves, thinner, a nervous guy fiddling with a knife. Léo snaps his fingers, a sharp gesture, and the giant advances, grabbing me and lifting me like a dead weight. I growl, my voice raw, broken.
—Let me go, son of a bitch!
He ignores me, drags me to a corner of the room, a sofa where he tosses me without gentleness, my back hits the armrest and it cuts my breath.
Léo approaches, pulls a chair, sits facing me, his legs crossed, a king on his rotten throne.
—You have until tonight to decide, Rosie. You stay, or they die. And believe me, I have the means. Kostya doesn’t care, as long as I pay. Think carefully. And if you make the right choice, no tricks. We’ll get married, that’s what you wanted, right?
—Not you, seeing how you abandoned me like shit! Even when I was in rehab, you didn’t come.
—Business before all! But you won’t have to wait for me anymore, I’m going to keep you by my side.
He gets up, turns on his heel, and disappears through a door at the back, his steps fading on a creaking staircase. The giant stays, stares at me, a smirk on his weathered face, and the guy with the knife scoffs, a high sound that makes my hackles rise. My thoughts tangle, a chaos of rage and fear, and a question tears at me, a silent scream that pounds in my head as I stare at this sofa, this trap, this impossible choice: can I let him win without losing everything?
