— Kirill, open the door. That click of the lock sounds like a verdict.
Elena yanked the chrome handle. Useless.
Inside the cabin of the brand-new SUV, it smelled of expensive leather and his cologne—cloying, with musky notes that always triggered her migraines. But today the scent felt not merely unpleasant, but suffocating, as if someone had pressed an ether-soaked rag to her face.
Her husband didn’t turn his head. He stared straight ahead at the gray ribbon of highway running into a pine forest. His fingers clenched the steering wheel so hard the skin over his knuckles stretched tight, like parchment.
— This isn’t “Forest Dales,” Elena said. Her voice came out raspy; her tongue barely moved. The aftereffects of last night’s tea. — We passed the turn fifteen kilometers ago. Where are you taking me?
— You need rest, Lena. Total isolation. Doctor Serov is a genius in early dementia and nervous breakdowns. It’s quiet there, it’s forest. No phones, no meetings, no hysterics about the missing money.
— I wasn’t hysterical. I just asked why three million rubles disappeared from the holding company accounts, and why your brother suddenly bought an apartment downtown.
Kirill finally looked at her.
There was no hatred in his gaze. Only a sticky, fish-eyed pity mixed with disgust—the look people give a beloved dog whose hind legs have stopped working, while the owner drives it to the vet, telling himself it’s better for everyone.
— You’re tired, sweetheart. You’re confused. Yesterday you lunged at the secretary. You forgot you signed the transfer yourself. And you signed the general power of attorney, too—yesterday. After dinner.
— I didn’t sign anything.
— Remember the tea. Herbal blend. Lemon balm and thyme. You drank it, said your head was spinning, signed the papers for the courier, and went to bed.
That taste appeared in her mouth at once. Bitter-sweet, astringent—the taste of betrayal.
Heaviness at the base of her skull. Cotton legs that refused to walk. A pen slipping from her fingers, and his gentle whisper in her ear: “Just an autograph, Lenochka, it’s for the tax office—formalities.”
He poisoned me.
The car suddenly slowed. They left the asphalt for a dirt road. Ahead rose tall, oppressive gates painted a dingy green. On top ran spirals of razor wire.
This wasn’t a clinic. It was a cattle pen.
The gates clanged open, letting the car inside. The yard was empty and gray despite the sunny day.
As soon as the SUV stopped, the driver’s door swung wide. Kirill stepped out, straightening a perfectly tailored jacket. He wasn’t even sweating.
Two men were already at the passenger door—solid guys in orderly uniforms who looked more like bouncers from a roadside bar.
The door was yanked open.
A smell flooded the cabin.
Not pine. Not freshness.
It reeked of bleach, cheap cafeteria food—sour cabbage, boiled onions—and something sweetish and nauseating. The stink of stale sickness and unwashed bodies hit her so hard it triggered a gag reflex.
— Out you go, citizen, one of the orderlies grunted—his face not disfigured by intelligence.
Elena tried to claw at the seat, swing her handbag at him, but her body betrayed her. Her reflexes were asleep. Her muscles felt stuffed with cotton.
They hauled her outside like a rag doll. Her fifty-thousand-ruble heels sank into watery mud.
— Kirill! She tried to scream, but only a strangled rasp came out. — You’ll regret this! You’ll die broke under a fence, do you hear me?!
Her husband fastidiously brushed off the sleeve she had touched.
A man in a white coat approached—thrown over an expensive suit. Soft-bodied, red-faced, with watery eyes that darted around. He reeked of yesterday’s hangover, unsuccessfully masked by mint gum.
— You see, doctor? Kirill nodded toward Elena. — Typical picture. Aggression, persecution delusions, threats to loved ones. She’s dangerous to herself and others.
— We’ll admit her under the first category, Kirill Yevgenyevich, Doctor Serov said with an oily smile. — Acute psychosis. Isolation, intensive therapy. In a month she won’t remember even her own name—let alone account numbers.
— Her things are in the trunk, Kirill threw out without looking at Elena. — Take her phone. Any contact with the outside world—only through me. It’s for her own good.
He turned and got back into the car.
The window slid smoothly upward, cutting Elena off from her former life. She could see his profile—calm, indifferent.
The engine roared, and the black SUV—the one she’d given him for their last anniversary—turned around, splashing her with mud as it sped away.
Elena was left standing, held upright by two brutes, in the middle of a чужой yard.
— Fifth ward for her, Serov yawned, losing interest. — And give her “cocktail number two.” Let her sleep it off.
A needle punched into her shoulder roughly, straight through the blouse fabric. The world dimmed.
Waking up was long and agonizing, like surfacing from a swamp thick with crude oil.
Her head buzzed like an electrical transformer box. Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Every cell in her body hurt.
Elena forced her eyes open.
A ceiling stained yellow from leaks. A fluorescent lamp where a fat fly buzzed and thrashed. A window barred with tight metal grating.
She lay on an iron bed with a sagging spring mesh. The linens were gray, washed to shreds, and smelled of laundry soap.
To the right, someone snored powerfully, whistling on the inhale. To the left came quiet, monotonous muttering.
She tried to sit up—but the world rocked.
— Don’t jerk like that, a creaky voice said. — Stand up too fast and you’ll turn yourself inside out. “Number two” is garbage—cheap neuroleptic. After it your legs won’t work for two days.
Elena turned her head.
On the neighboring bed sat an old man—thin, wiry, with a wild beard, like a washed-up geologist. He held a battered book with no cover close to his eyes.
— Who are you? she whispered. Her voice didn’t sound like hers.
— Me? I’m the local attraction. Pyotr Ilyich. In my past life—chief accountant of a big factory. In this one—“a senile old man” who got in the way of his son and daughter-in-law living in their two-bedroom on the Garden Ring. And who are you supposed to be?
— Elena. Owner of the “Health Plus” clinic network.
The old man snorted, turning a page with a spit-wet finger.
— Well, welcome to the club. Over there in the corner, that one snoring is a former colonel. And by the window, some “People’s Artist” from some theater is howling. Only in here, we’re all biomass. Sacks of bones Serov makes money off.
Elena gripped the edge of the scratchy blanket. Her nails dug into her palm—to use pain to chase away the drug fog.
— I’ll get out of here. This is a mistake. I have a business, connections.
— Everyone says that on day one. On day three they start crying. On day seven they break and wait for porridge. There’s a system here, girl. Serov is king and god. The orderlies are his chained dogs. The fence is the edge of the universe. People leave only feet first—when the payer stops wiring money.
— My husband…
— Your husband dumped you here? Pyotr Ilyich cut in, finally lifting his eyes from the book. They were clear—unexpectedly intelligent.
Elena didn’t answer.
— Genre classic. Husband sells wife out to take the business. Boring. He’s carving up your assets now, drinking champagne, and you’ll rot here until you sign everything over. Or until you turn into a vegetable.
Elena swung her legs to the floor. The linoleum was icy, bubbled up in blisters.
She was wearing some shapeless nightgown. Her clothes were gone.
She reached for her neck. The thin platinum chain with a cross was missing. The diamond ring too. Grave robbers.
— Is there a phone here?
— Phones are only for staff. And for Varya, the nurse. But Varya’s a commercial lady. A call costs five hundred rubles. And you don’t have a kopek or pockets. You’re naked.
Elena stood. She swayed, but grabbed the bedframe to steady herself.
Anger—cold, clean anger—began to push out fear and the drug’s haze.
Kirill thought she’d break at peeling walls and the stench of urine? He’d forgotten she started her business in the nineties, selling medicine off the trunk of a Lada in freezing weather.
— Pyotr Ilyich, she said firmly, looking him in the eye. — I need to know everything. Duty schedules, staff habits, Serov’s weak spots. And Varya’s schedule.
The old man set the book aside. For the first time in a long while something alive sparked in his eyes.
— Got teeth, huh, he approved with a dry chuckle. — The toothy ones live longer here. Listen. Varya’s greedy. Loans, a mortgage, and a gigolo boyfriend. She’s on night shift today. She goes out to smoke on the back steps every two hours. But Nikita the orderly patrols there—with a German shepherd.
— Does Nikita like money?
— Nikita likes vodka. And vodka needs money. But he’s stupid and cruel. You can’t negotiate with him—he’ll snitch. But Varya… Varya’s smarter.
The next two days turned into a hellish Groundhog Day.
Elena studied the place.
The “Elite” boarding home was a stage set—pretty façade for relatives outside, rotten system inside.
She saw the cook draining oil into three-liter jars and hiding them in a bag.
She saw Serov receiving shady people in his office late at night.
And she smelled something from the basement—that same sweet, medicinal odor. There was clearly something down there that didn’t belong in a nursing home.
She didn’t swallow the pills. She hid them in her cheek, then spat them into the toilet. She ate only to keep strength.
Pyotr Ilyich was priceless. His ex-auditor brain scanned reality and found cracks.
— Serov steals more than food, he whispered during their “walk,” as they shuffled in circles around the prison-yard courtyard. — I saw invoices on the head nurse’s desk. He writes off “dead souls.” People are gone, but meds are still prescribed in their names. Expensive drugs—and they disappear immediately.
— Where to?
— Into the city. To “left” pharmacies. Or to that basement.
The third night came. Varya’s shift.
Elena didn’t sleep. She waited.
When the door squeaked and a flashlight beam slid across the ward, Elena sat up.
— Still awake? Varya whispered, stepping up with a syringe. — Turn over. Shot time.
The girl looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, cheap makeup smeared. She smelled of tobacco and hopelessness.
— I’m offering you a deal, Varya.
The nurse froze.
— What? Psycho, lie down.
— One hundred thousand rubles. Right now.
Varya scoffed, but lowered the syringe.
— You’ve got nothing. Your husband closed your accounts, Serov said you’re bankrupt. And insane.
— Serov’s lying. My husband’s lying. I own the holding company. I have reserve accounts my husband doesn’t know about. Only my head of security has access.
— And how are you going to reach them—carrier pigeon?
— Your phone. One call. I give the code. The money lands on your card. Instantly.
— You’re lying.
— Then test it. What do you lose? If I’m lying—you give me a double dose and I’m a vegetable. Nobody finds out. If I’m not… you pay off your iPhone loan and buy your mom’s meds. I saw the prescriptions in your pocket.
Varya bit her lip. Greed wrestled fear.
— Five minutes, she breathed, glancing toward the door. — If Serov finds out, he’ll kill me.
She pulled out a smartphone with a cracked screen.
Elena took it with trembling hands. She knew Viktor Petrovich’s number by heart.
Ringing. Long, dragging.
— Yes? Viktor’s bass voice sounded like music.
— Protocol “Zero.” Identification: Sokolova Elena Viktorovna. Code: “North-Nine-Amethyst.”
Silence on the other end—exactly one second.
— Identification confirmed, Elena Viktorovna. Where are you? Kirill said you were in Switzerland for treatment.
— I’m in hell, Viktor. Moscow region, “Silver Pine” boarding home. Kirill forged papers saying I’m incompetent. He’s trying to sell the company.
— Understood. I’m coming with a tactical team.
— No! she cut him off sharply. — Not yet.
— Why?
— I need Kirill to come here himself—thinking he’s won. And I need dirt on Serov. This “doctor” built a concentration camp and a counterfeit warehouse. I need evidence so we put them all away—not just scare them.
— What do you need me to do?
— Right now: transfer one hundred thousand rubles to the card linked to this phone number. It’s payment to my contact. Do it now.
— One second… Done.
The phone in Varya’s hands chirped. A bank SMS arrived.
Varya snatched it, stared at the screen. Her eyes went wide.
— It came… It actually came… A hundred grand…
— That’s just an advance, Varya. Elena closed her hand around the nurse’s wrist—an iron grip. — Now you work for me. You want out of this swamp?
Varya nodded jerkily.
— I need you to photograph everything in the basement. And the documents in Serov’s safe. The safe code is his mistress’s birthday—1205. I heard him babbling on the phone.
— And then?
— Then send everything to Viktor. And wait.
Elena took the phone again.
— Viktor, here’s the order. Freeze all company accounts. Stop every deal. Black out their information channels—kill the servers if you have to. Kirill needs to panic. He needs to come flying here to squeeze a new signature out of me.
— Copy. Locking the shareholder register. Not a mouse slips through.
Elena handed the phone back to a stunned Varya.
— Go. And act normal.
Morning didn’t begin with birdsong, but the screech of brakes.
Elena sat on the bed, one leg crossed over the other, leafing through Pyotr Ilyich’s book—a volume of Chekhov. Very fitting.
The ward door slammed open, banging the wall.
Kirill stood in the doorway.
His polish was gone. His tie hung crooked, his hair was messy, red blotches covered his face.
A terrified Serov hovered behind him.
— What did you do?! Kirill screamed, lunging at her.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her so hard her teeth clacked.
— Hello, my love, Elena said calmly. — You look tense. Ran out of lemon-balm tea?
— You froze the accounts! The investor deal is dead! The notary refused to certify the contract! Do you understand what you did? You ruined us!
— Not us, Kirill. You. I protected my assets.
— You bitch… he hissed. — Think you’re the smartest? You’re here, under my power! Serov! Bring a syringe! Haloperidol, aminazine—everything! Turn her into a vegetable. Right now!
Serov hesitated.
— Kirill Yevgenyevich, it’s dangerous… If she overdoses—
— I don’t care! She leaves only feet first—or with signed papers! Inject her!
Kirill raised his hand to slap her.
Elena didn’t flinch. She looked him straight in the eyes.
The door opened again.
— Wouldn’t recommend it, a deep bass voice rumbled.
In the doorway—filling the space like a wall—stood Viktor Petrovich. Black coat, calm and inevitable as an iceberg.
Behind him were masked special forces and an investigator holding a file.
— Citizen Sokolov? the investigator asked. — Step away from the victim.
Kirill froze with his hand raised. His face turned the color of old paper.
— Vitya… he stammered. — It’s a mistake… She’s sick… I was treating her…
— Treating her? Viktor stepped into the ward. — Varya gave us photos of your “treatment.” And video from the security cameras. And documents from Doctor Serov’s safe.
Serov, realizing it was over, tried to slip away—straight into a SOBR trooper’s chest.
— Citizen Serov, you’re under arrest, the investigator read in a flat voice. — Unlawful deprivation of liberty, fraud on an especially large scale, organizing the distribution of falsified medicines.
Elena stood.
She walked up to her husband.
Now, with real force behind her, he looked small and pathetic.
— You wanted money, Kirill? she asked quietly.
— Lena, forgive me… He dropped to his knees, trying to grab her hand. — I got tangled… They made me… I have debts… I’ll fix everything…
Elena pulled her hand back in disgust.
— You didn’t get tangled. You just decided I was a resource. A wallet with legs you could gut and throw away.
She turned to Viktor.
— You took the folder off him?
— Yes, in the car. Viktor handed her a leather folder—the same one Kirill had arrived with.
Elena pulled out the fake power of attorney.
Slowly, looking her kneeling husband in the eyes, she tore it into tiny pieces. The paper resisted, but Elena tore it apart with pleasure.
— Take them away, she said. — It stinks in here.
EPILOGUE
A year passed.
Where the grim barred boarding home had stood, there was now a modern rehabilitation center. The fence was gone; a living hedge of arborvitae stood in its place.
Elena Viktorovna sat in her office. The window was open, and the air smelled of cut grass and pine—not bleach and misery.
She signed the last invoice for new equipment: a next-generation MRI machine.
A knock sounded.
— Come in.
Varya appeared in the doorway. No longer a crushed nurse in worn slippers: a sharp business suit, a confident gaze, neat diamond studs in her ears—a New Year’s gift from Elena. She was now the center’s operations manager.
— Elena Viktorovna, someone’s here to see you. About the groundskeeper vacancy.
— I thought we were fully staffed, Elena said, surprised.
— He insisted. Said you know him.
A chill slid down Elena’s spine. Not fear—anticipation.
— Send him in.
A man entered.
A battered jacket, gray trousers with baggy knees, a cheap cap in his hands. He looked ten years older. Stubble shot with gray, a hunted animal’s darting eyes.
Kirill Sokolov.
The man who once drove the SUV she’d gifted him and thought he owned the world.
The investigation took a long time, but thanks to lawyers and connections he got a suspended sentence and a massive fine. His property was confiscated for debts.
— Hello, Lena… Elena Viktorovna, he mumbled, crumpling his cap in dirty hands.
— What do you want, Kirill?
— I need work. Nobody will take me. Viktor Petrovich… he made sure of it. Blacklisted everywhere. They won’t even hire me as a loader once they hear the name. I’m starving, Lena.
— And you came to me?
— You were… you were kind. Before. Give me anything. Any job. I can do it all. I ran things, I—
Elena stood and walked to the window.
Down below, elderly patients strolled. Among them she spotted Pyotr Ilyich—now the center’s chief auditor, terrorizing suppliers and perfectly happy with a new purpose.
— You want work? Elena turned back. — You know, we need someone in infectious diseases. Empty bedpans and mop floors after severe cases. And also—test new adult diapers for “ergonomics.” Minimum wage. Dorm housing at your expense.
Kirill’s face twisted.
— You… you’re joking? Me—empty bedpans?!
— It’s the only vacancy you qualify for, morally. You wanted to send me somewhere people soil themselves—now you can study the process from the inside.
— Witch! he spat. — Cold, icy witch!
— I’m just pragmatic. Like you taught me.
She pressed the intercom button.
— Security—escort this visitor out. And make sure he doesn’t come near the grounds again.
Two broad-shouldered men entered.
They grabbed Kirill by the arms and dragged him out. He kicked and hurled curses, but his voice drowned in the clinic’s brisk, working hum.
Elena watched him go.
She felt nothing—no pain, no bitterness. He was just dust now. A past she’d survived to become stronger.
Varya peeked in, apologetic.
— Sorry, Elena Viktorovna. I thought you might… well, enjoy seeing him.
— You did the right thing, Varya. Elena smiled, and this smile was genuine. — Bring me coffee. And the supplier list. We need to expand. I saw another “boarding home” in the city… I think there are people there worth saving.
She picked up her pen.
Life went on. And now it smelled not of fear, but of fresh coffee and victory