Episode 77

The air in the secluded dacha hung thick with unspoken words. Anya, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, sat by the crackling fireplace, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames. The ordeal had left its mark, a subtle tremor in her hands, a shadow in her usually luminous eyes. Dmitri, his own exhaustion etched onto his face, watched her, a knot of protectiveness tightening in his chest. Nickola, ever the pragmatist, was already pouring them all glasses of steaming tea, the ritual a small anchor in the turbulent aftermath.

"He confessed," Dmitri said, his voice low, breaking the silence. "Everything. The blackmail, the threats, the release of those… unsavory photographs. He thought he had you trapped."

Anya flinched, a memory of the cold, sterile room and the leering face of their captor flashing behind her eyes. "He underestimated me," she whispered, her voice gaining a fraction of its former strength. "And he underestimated you both."