Previous Chapter (18) - Dolly | First Chapter - Camila
The street was a monument to quiet, manicured American prosperity. It was a place of wide lawns that smelled of freshly cut grass, of triple-paned windows that kept the world at bay, and of driveways paved with the smooth, dark asphalt of immense wealth.
Piotr Kowalski stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the house. It was a sprawling colonial revival, white clapboard gleaming in the afternoon sun, flanked by two ancient oak trees that cast dappled shadows across the porch. A bicycle leaned against the side of the garage. A basketball hoop stood sentinel over the driveway.
It was aggressively, painfully normal.
Piotr adjusted the cuffs of his coat. It was cashmere, charcoal grey, tailored in Milan. The suit beneath it was bespoke. The shoes were Italian leather. He was a man armoured in wealth and influence, a titan of industry who could move markets with a phone call.
But standing here, in this quiet Chicago suburb, he felt as fragile as glass.
Beside him, Karol Wójcik was a monolith of silence. The big man was dressed in a suit that strained slightly at the shoulders, his presence less corporate and more kinetic. He was a coiled spring, his eyes scanning the street, the windows, the shadows under the porch.
"Are you certain about this, sir?" Karol asked. His voice was a low rumble, meant only for Piotr. "The team is ready. We can have a perimeter set in ten minutes. We can be inside in fifteen. Clean. Professional."
Piotr shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the front door of the house. "No, Karol."
"Sir, these people… they deal in human lives. They are not reasonable men. Elena was... "bought" over a month ago. God only knows what has happened to her."
"This is not a warlord in a failed state, Karol," Piotr said, his voice heavy with the exhaustion of six months of sleepless nights. "This is not a warehouse in the industrial district. Look at this place. This is a man with a mortgage. A man who mows his lawn on Sundays. He has neighbors. He has a life."
He took a breath, the autumn air cool and crisp in his lungs. "I do not want blood. I do not want a firefight in a neighborhood with children on bicycles. I want my daughter. I will look this man in the eye. I will offer him a sum of money that will allow him to vanish, to start over, to live like a king. I will buy her back. Civilly."
He turned to Karol, his expression hardening. "But if civility fails… if he refuses me… then you may burn his world down."
Karol nodded once, a sharp, military jerk of his chin. "Understood, sir."
"Let's go."
They walked up the path. The sound of their shoes on the stone pavers seemed unnaturally loud. Piotr felt his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that belied his calm exterior. Every step was a battle between the desperate father screaming to kick the door down and the disciplined businessman who knew that leverage was a delicate thing.
They reached the porch. It was clean. A "Welcome" mat with a painted pineapple lay before the polished mahogany door.
Karol stepped forward and pressed the doorbell.
Ding-dong.
The cheerful electronic chime echoed from deep within the house. It was a sound from a sitcom. A sound of neighbors borrowing sugar. It made Piotr feel physically ill.
He clasped his hands behind his back, forcing his posture straight, fixing his face into the mask of unshakeable authority he wore in the boardroom. He waited for the monster to answer the door.
A moment later, the lock clicked. The handle turned.
Piotr braced himself. He expected a thug. He expected a man with cold eyes and tattoos, or perhaps a slick, oily predator in a cheap suit.
The door swung open.
Standing there was a boy.
He couldn't have been more than seventeen. He was lanky, growing into a frame that was all elbows and knees. He wore a faded grey hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and baggy jeans. His hair was a messy mop of brown, and in his right hand, he held a smartphone, his thumb hovering over the screen as if interrupted mid-text.
He looked at the two men on his porch—the distinguished older man in the coat and the towering bodyguard behind him—with a mixture of adolescent boredom and mild confusion.
"Good afternoon," Piotr said. His voice was steady, a low baritone that commanded attention without needing to be raised. "Is your father at home?"
The boy blinked, his eyes scanning them up and down. He didn't look scared. He looked annoyed at the interruption.
"Who's asking?" the boy said, his voice mirroring his bored expression.
Piotr stepped forward just an inch, invading the threshold's personal space. "My name is Piotr Kowalski," he stated clearly, enunciating each syllable. "I have a private matter to discuss with the man of the house."
The boy frowned slightly, then shrugged, leaning back against the doorframe.
"Dad!" he yelled over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. "Some guy's here for you!"
From the depths of the hallway, movement. A shadow detached itself from the interior and shuffled forward.
"Coming, coming," a voice called out. It was mild, distracted.
A man stepped into the light. He was in his late fifties, soft around the middle, with thinning hair and a face that seemed designed to be forgotten. He wore spectacles on a chain around his neck and a beige cardigan over a plaid shirt. He looked like a high school geography teacher, or perhaps an accountant who specialized in small business audits.
He stopped beside his son, peering at Piotr and Karol with polite curiosity.
"Yes?" he asked, a pleasant smile on his face. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Piotr stared at him. This was the man? This soft, unassuming creature was the monster who had purchased his daughter like a piece of furniture? The cognitive dissonance was dizzying.
"Yes," Piotr said, forcing the words out past the bile rising in his throat. "I am Piotr Kowalski. As I told your son, I would like to speak with you regarding a private matter. It is… sensitive."
The man frowned slightly, blinking behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He seemed confused, but not alarmed. The presence of Karol, looming silently like a tombstone, registered as odd rather than threatening to a man clearly unaccustomed to violence.
"Kowalski?" the man repeated, the name rolling awkwardly off his tongue. He shook his head. "I don't believe we've met. Are you selling something? Because we have a very strict no-soliciting rule in the neighborhood."
"I am not selling anything, sir," Piotr said cold. "I am here to make a purchase. May we come in?"
The man hesitated, glancing briefly at his son, who had already lost interest and was back to tapping on his phone. Then, the ingrained reflex of suburban hospitality took over. He stepped back, swinging the door wider.
"Well, I suppose," he said, fluttering his hands. "Come in, come in. Don't let the heat out."
Piotr stepped across the threshold, entering the belly of the beast. It smelled of lemon polish and baking bread.
The man led them down a hallway lined with family photos. Piotr’s eyes raked over them. Disneyland trips. Graduations. Christmas mornings. It was a shrine to a happy, normal life. It was a lie. It had to be a lie.
"We were just in the kitchen," the man chattered, leading them toward the back of the house. "My wife is just putting some flowers in water. Tyler, get your elbows off the wall, please."
The boy, Tyler, rolled his eyes but pushed himself off the wall, following them with a sullen slouch.
They entered the kitchen. It was vast, open-plan, and flooded with light from a row of bay windows overlooking a pristine backyard. A large granite island dominated the center of the room.
A woman stood by the sink, trimming the stems of yellow chrysanthemums. She looked up as they entered, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She had a kind, open face.
"Gordon?" she asked, smiling at the strangers. "Who are our guests?"
"Mr. Kowalski," Gordon said, gesturing vaguely. "He says he has some business to discuss."
Piotr stood by the island, feeling like a dark stain in this bright, airy room. The normalcy of it was suffocating. He looked at Gordon, then at the wife, and finally at Tyler, who had leaned against the refrigerator and was pointedly ignoring everyone.
"Thank you for seeing me," Piotr said, his voice tight. "Sir, this matter is… extremely delicate. Perhaps we could speak in your study? Or perhaps outside?" He glanced meaningfully at the wife and son.
Gordon laughed, a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. He walked over to his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.
"Nonsense," Gordon said, beaming. "Linda and I have been married for thirty years. We have no secrets between us. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of my family. We are an open book."
Piotr stared at him. The audacity. The sheer, sociopathic gall to hide behind this facade of marital transparency.
"I strongly advise against that," Piotr said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its corporate veneer and becoming heavy with suppressed rage.
Gordon’s smile faltered slightly. "I insist," he said, a note of stubbornness entering his voice. "This is my home, sir. Speak your piece or please leave."
Piotr closed his eyes for a second. So be it.
He opened them and fixed Gordon with a stare that had withered CEOs and politicians.
"Very… very well, sir," Piotr said. "I am Piotr Kowalski. I am the father of a young woman named Elena Kowalski."
He paused. He let the name hang in the air, watching them. Searching for a flinch. A gasp. A look of guilt.
Gordon looked blank. Linda looked politely interested, perhaps sensing the grief in Piotr’s tone. Tyler didn't look up from his phone.
Nothing. They were stonewalling him.
Piotr took a step closer to the island, placing his hands flat on the cold granite. "Anyway," he continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I was led to believe… through certain inescapable digital trails… that she was recently 'purchased'."
He locked eyes with Gordon. "She was purchased by an individual using the online handle… 'User734'."
The name hit the room like a grenade.
Gordon’s placid, confused expression vanished. In a split second, his face drained of all color, turning a sickly, pasty grey. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, bulging with pure, unadulterated terror. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on land. He looked like a man who had just seen the Grim Reaper tap him on the shoulder.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Linda looked from Piotr to her husband, her brow furrowing. The confusion on her face began to curdle into something sharper. "Gordon?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Gordon, dear? Do you have any idea what this man is talking about?"
Tyler, over by the fridge, finally looked up. His eyes were wide, darting between his parents. "Dad?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What is… what is User734?"
Gordon looked at his son. Then at his wife. Then at Piotr. He began to shake.
"TYLER, GO!" Gordon suddenly shrieked. It wasn't a request; it was a panicked, high-pitched wail. "Just… go to your room! Now! Please!"
"But Dad, I want to kn—"
"PLEASE, TYLER!" Gordon screamed, practically shoving the boy toward the hallway door. "Just go! Get out of here!"
Linda stepped forward, her eyes locking onto her husband's face. Her expression had hardened into granite. "Do as your father says, sweetie," she said, her voice icy.
Tyler looked at them, bewildered, then turned and scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, Linda turned on her husband. Her voice was low, dangerous, dripping with a quiet fury that was more terrifying than Gordon’s shouting.
"Gordon," she hissed. "What. Did. You. Do."
Gordon collapsed against the counter, wringing his hands, looking for all the world like a child caught stealing. "No! I… I didn't! I never… I mean…" He looked at his wife, pleading. "I… I mean I stopped going on there!"
"Going on WHERE, GORDON!?" she screamed.
Gordon began to babble, desperate to explain. "It's… it's just a website, Linda! A chat room! Subscription! Just for… for watching! I never touched anyone. I never met anyone! I just… I just looked! I swear! It was a phase! A stupid, sick phase! I stopped going on there! Please, you have to believe me!"
Piotr watched the domestic implosion, feeling like he was underwater. "Sir!" he cut in, his voice desperate. "I don't care about your marriage! I don't care about the police! I just want Elena home! I will pay whatever it takes! Just tell me where she is!"
Gordon looked at him, tears streaming down his face. "I don't know!" he wailed. "I swear to God, I don't know who she is! I just watched! I used the name 'User734', yes! But that's it! Just to watch! Please!"
Piotr stared at him. The man was pathetic. He was sobbing, terrified of his wife, terrified of exposure.
He sounded… truthful.
A cold, creeping doubt began to itch at the back of Piotr's neck. Gordon was a voyeur. A coward. But a buyer? A captor? This sniveling mess of a man didn't have the spine for it.
If it's not him… then who?
User734.
Gordon had admitted it was his. The account belonged to him.
And yet, Gordon was shivering on the floor, swearing on his marriage that he had stopped using it, that he was just a passive observer of a sick world he no longer visited.
Piotr looked at the sobbing man. He believed him. Gordon didn't have the stomach for abduction. He barely had the stomach for the confrontation in his own kitchen.
So how did a dormant account belonging to a suburban father purchase a human being?
Piotr’s gaze shifted to the stainless steel refrigerator, where the boy, Tyler, had been leaning just moments ago.
Saved passwords. Auto-fill. Browser history.
Gordon had stopped watching. But he hadn't deleted the account. It sat there, a loaded gun left on a digital table. And in a house like this, who knew the technology better than anyone? Who spent their life glued to a screen?
Piotr’s mind raced back to the porch. To the moment he had introduced himself.
"My name is Piotr Kowalski."
He replayed the boy's face in his mind's eye. Tyler. Lanky, bored, disconnected. Until he heard the name.
There had been a twitch. A micro-expression that Piotr had initially dismissed as a teenager simply reacting to a stranger's intensity. But looking back now, through the lens of Gordon's confession, it took on a terrifying new light.
Why would a seventeen-year-old boy in Illinois recognize the name "Kowalski"? Piotr was a titan of industry in Europe, not a celebrity. The boy shouldn't have known him.
Unless he wasn't recognizing Piotr.
Unless he was recognizing the name of the "product."
The flicker in the boy's eyes hadn't been confusion. It had been the deer-in-headlights look of a player who suddenly realizes the game has bled into reality. The look of someone realizing that his favourite toy has a father, and that father is standing on his front porch.
If Tyler had found the saved login… if he had hijacked his father's dormant account to explore the dark web…
The blood drained from Piotr’s face, leaving him colder than he had ever felt in his life. The screaming wife, the sobbing husband—they faded into background noise. The monster wasn't the man cowering on the floor. The monster was much younger, and he had just been sent out of the room.
Piotr turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto the closed kitchen door.
"Where," Piotr asked, his voice a whisper that cut through the room like a razor blade, "is your son?"
Next Chapter (20) - Martin
The street was a monument to quiet, manicured American prosperity. It was a place of wide lawns that smelled of freshly cut grass, of triple-paned windows that kept the world at bay, and of driveways paved with the smooth, dark asphalt of immense wealth.
Piotr Kowalski stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the house. It was a sprawling colonial revival, white clapboard gleaming in the afternoon sun, flanked by two ancient oak trees that cast dappled shadows across the porch. A bicycle leaned against the side of the garage. A basketball hoop stood sentinel over the driveway.
It was aggressively, painfully normal.
Piotr adjusted the cuffs of his coat. It was cashmere, charcoal grey, tailored in Milan. The suit beneath it was bespoke. The shoes were Italian leather. He was a man armoured in wealth and influence, a titan of industry who could move markets with a phone call.
But standing here, in this quiet Chicago suburb, he felt as fragile as glass.
Beside him, Karol Wójcik was a monolith of silence. The big man was dressed in a suit that strained slightly at the shoulders, his presence less corporate and more kinetic. He was a coiled spring, his eyes scanning the street, the windows, the shadows under the porch.
"Are you certain about this, sir?" Karol asked. His voice was a low rumble, meant only for Piotr. "The team is ready. We can have a perimeter set in ten minutes. We can be inside in fifteen. Clean. Professional."
Piotr shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the front door of the house. "No, Karol."
"Sir, these people… they deal in human lives. They are not reasonable men. Elena was... "bought" over a month ago. God only knows what has happened to her."
"This is not a warlord in a failed state, Karol," Piotr said, his voice heavy with the exhaustion of six months of sleepless nights. "This is not a warehouse in the industrial district. Look at this place. This is a man with a mortgage. A man who mows his lawn on Sundays. He has neighbors. He has a life."
He took a breath, the autumn air cool and crisp in his lungs. "I do not want blood. I do not want a firefight in a neighborhood with children on bicycles. I want my daughter. I will look this man in the eye. I will offer him a sum of money that will allow him to vanish, to start over, to live like a king. I will buy her back. Civilly."
He turned to Karol, his expression hardening. "But if civility fails… if he refuses me… then you may burn his world down."
Karol nodded once, a sharp, military jerk of his chin. "Understood, sir."
"Let's go."
They walked up the path. The sound of their shoes on the stone pavers seemed unnaturally loud. Piotr felt his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that belied his calm exterior. Every step was a battle between the desperate father screaming to kick the door down and the disciplined businessman who knew that leverage was a delicate thing.
They reached the porch. It was clean. A "Welcome" mat with a painted pineapple lay before the polished mahogany door.
Karol stepped forward and pressed the doorbell.
Ding-dong.
The cheerful electronic chime echoed from deep within the house. It was a sound from a sitcom. A sound of neighbors borrowing sugar. It made Piotr feel physically ill.
He clasped his hands behind his back, forcing his posture straight, fixing his face into the mask of unshakeable authority he wore in the boardroom. He waited for the monster to answer the door.
A moment later, the lock clicked. The handle turned.
Piotr braced himself. He expected a thug. He expected a man with cold eyes and tattoos, or perhaps a slick, oily predator in a cheap suit.
The door swung open.
Standing there was a boy.
He couldn't have been more than seventeen. He was lanky, growing into a frame that was all elbows and knees. He wore a faded grey hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and baggy jeans. His hair was a messy mop of brown, and in his right hand, he held a smartphone, his thumb hovering over the screen as if interrupted mid-text.
He looked at the two men on his porch—the distinguished older man in the coat and the towering bodyguard behind him—with a mixture of adolescent boredom and mild confusion.
"Good afternoon," Piotr said. His voice was steady, a low baritone that commanded attention without needing to be raised. "Is your father at home?"
The boy blinked, his eyes scanning them up and down. He didn't look scared. He looked annoyed at the interruption.
"Who's asking?" the boy said, his voice mirroring his bored expression.
Piotr stepped forward just an inch, invading the threshold's personal space. "My name is Piotr Kowalski," he stated clearly, enunciating each syllable. "I have a private matter to discuss with the man of the house."
The boy frowned slightly, then shrugged, leaning back against the doorframe.
"Dad!" he yelled over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. "Some guy's here for you!"
From the depths of the hallway, movement. A shadow detached itself from the interior and shuffled forward.
"Coming, coming," a voice called out. It was mild, distracted.
A man stepped into the light. He was in his late fifties, soft around the middle, with thinning hair and a face that seemed designed to be forgotten. He wore spectacles on a chain around his neck and a beige cardigan over a plaid shirt. He looked like a high school geography teacher, or perhaps an accountant who specialized in small business audits.
He stopped beside his son, peering at Piotr and Karol with polite curiosity.
"Yes?" he asked, a pleasant smile on his face. "Can I help you gentlemen?"
Piotr stared at him. This was the man? This soft, unassuming creature was the monster who had purchased his daughter like a piece of furniture? The cognitive dissonance was dizzying.
"Yes," Piotr said, forcing the words out past the bile rising in his throat. "I am Piotr Kowalski. As I told your son, I would like to speak with you regarding a private matter. It is… sensitive."
The man frowned slightly, blinking behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He seemed confused, but not alarmed. The presence of Karol, looming silently like a tombstone, registered as odd rather than threatening to a man clearly unaccustomed to violence.
"Kowalski?" the man repeated, the name rolling awkwardly off his tongue. He shook his head. "I don't believe we've met. Are you selling something? Because we have a very strict no-soliciting rule in the neighborhood."
"I am not selling anything, sir," Piotr said cold. "I am here to make a purchase. May we come in?"
The man hesitated, glancing briefly at his son, who had already lost interest and was back to tapping on his phone. Then, the ingrained reflex of suburban hospitality took over. He stepped back, swinging the door wider.
"Well, I suppose," he said, fluttering his hands. "Come in, come in. Don't let the heat out."
Piotr stepped across the threshold, entering the belly of the beast. It smelled of lemon polish and baking bread.
The man led them down a hallway lined with family photos. Piotr’s eyes raked over them. Disneyland trips. Graduations. Christmas mornings. It was a shrine to a happy, normal life. It was a lie. It had to be a lie.
"We were just in the kitchen," the man chattered, leading them toward the back of the house. "My wife is just putting some flowers in water. Tyler, get your elbows off the wall, please."
The boy, Tyler, rolled his eyes but pushed himself off the wall, following them with a sullen slouch.
They entered the kitchen. It was vast, open-plan, and flooded with light from a row of bay windows overlooking a pristine backyard. A large granite island dominated the center of the room.
A woman stood by the sink, trimming the stems of yellow chrysanthemums. She looked up as they entered, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She had a kind, open face.
"Gordon?" she asked, smiling at the strangers. "Who are our guests?"
"Mr. Kowalski," Gordon said, gesturing vaguely. "He says he has some business to discuss."
Piotr stood by the island, feeling like a dark stain in this bright, airy room. The normalcy of it was suffocating. He looked at Gordon, then at the wife, and finally at Tyler, who had leaned against the refrigerator and was pointedly ignoring everyone.
"Thank you for seeing me," Piotr said, his voice tight. "Sir, this matter is… extremely delicate. Perhaps we could speak in your study? Or perhaps outside?" He glanced meaningfully at the wife and son.
Gordon laughed, a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. He walked over to his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.
"Nonsense," Gordon said, beaming. "Linda and I have been married for thirty years. We have no secrets between us. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of my family. We are an open book."
Piotr stared at him. The audacity. The sheer, sociopathic gall to hide behind this facade of marital transparency.
"I strongly advise against that," Piotr said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its corporate veneer and becoming heavy with suppressed rage.
Gordon’s smile faltered slightly. "I insist," he said, a note of stubbornness entering his voice. "This is my home, sir. Speak your piece or please leave."
Piotr closed his eyes for a second. So be it.
He opened them and fixed Gordon with a stare that had withered CEOs and politicians.
"Very… very well, sir," Piotr said. "I am Piotr Kowalski. I am the father of a young woman named Elena Kowalski."
He paused. He let the name hang in the air, watching them. Searching for a flinch. A gasp. A look of guilt.
Gordon looked blank. Linda looked politely interested, perhaps sensing the grief in Piotr’s tone. Tyler didn't look up from his phone.
Nothing. They were stonewalling him.
Piotr took a step closer to the island, placing his hands flat on the cold granite. "Anyway," he continued, his voice trembling slightly. "I was led to believe… through certain inescapable digital trails… that she was recently 'purchased'."
He locked eyes with Gordon. "She was purchased by an individual using the online handle… 'User734'."
The name hit the room like a grenade.
Gordon’s placid, confused expression vanished. In a split second, his face drained of all color, turning a sickly, pasty grey. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, bulging with pure, unadulterated terror. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on land. He looked like a man who had just seen the Grim Reaper tap him on the shoulder.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Linda looked from Piotr to her husband, her brow furrowing. The confusion on her face began to curdle into something sharper. "Gordon?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Gordon, dear? Do you have any idea what this man is talking about?"
Tyler, over by the fridge, finally looked up. His eyes were wide, darting between his parents. "Dad?" he asked, his voice cracking. "What is… what is User734?"
Gordon looked at his son. Then at his wife. Then at Piotr. He began to shake.
"TYLER, GO!" Gordon suddenly shrieked. It wasn't a request; it was a panicked, high-pitched wail. "Just… go to your room! Now! Please!"
"But Dad, I want to kn—"
"PLEASE, TYLER!" Gordon screamed, practically shoving the boy toward the hallway door. "Just go! Get out of here!"
Linda stepped forward, her eyes locking onto her husband's face. Her expression had hardened into granite. "Do as your father says, sweetie," she said, her voice icy.
Tyler looked at them, bewildered, then turned and scurried out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, Linda turned on her husband. Her voice was low, dangerous, dripping with a quiet fury that was more terrifying than Gordon’s shouting.
"Gordon," she hissed. "What. Did. You. Do."
Gordon collapsed against the counter, wringing his hands, looking for all the world like a child caught stealing. "No! I… I didn't! I never… I mean…" He looked at his wife, pleading. "I… I mean I stopped going on there!"
"Going on WHERE, GORDON!?" she screamed.
Gordon began to babble, desperate to explain. "It's… it's just a website, Linda! A chat room! Subscription! Just for… for watching! I never touched anyone. I never met anyone! I just… I just looked! I swear! It was a phase! A stupid, sick phase! I stopped going on there! Please, you have to believe me!"
Piotr watched the domestic implosion, feeling like he was underwater. "Sir!" he cut in, his voice desperate. "I don't care about your marriage! I don't care about the police! I just want Elena home! I will pay whatever it takes! Just tell me where she is!"
Gordon looked at him, tears streaming down his face. "I don't know!" he wailed. "I swear to God, I don't know who she is! I just watched! I used the name 'User734', yes! But that's it! Just to watch! Please!"
Piotr stared at him. The man was pathetic. He was sobbing, terrified of his wife, terrified of exposure.
He sounded… truthful.
A cold, creeping doubt began to itch at the back of Piotr's neck. Gordon was a voyeur. A coward. But a buyer? A captor? This sniveling mess of a man didn't have the spine for it.
If it's not him… then who?
User734.
Gordon had admitted it was his. The account belonged to him.
And yet, Gordon was shivering on the floor, swearing on his marriage that he had stopped using it, that he was just a passive observer of a sick world he no longer visited.
Piotr looked at the sobbing man. He believed him. Gordon didn't have the stomach for abduction. He barely had the stomach for the confrontation in his own kitchen.
So how did a dormant account belonging to a suburban father purchase a human being?
Piotr’s gaze shifted to the stainless steel refrigerator, where the boy, Tyler, had been leaning just moments ago.
Saved passwords. Auto-fill. Browser history.
Gordon had stopped watching. But he hadn't deleted the account. It sat there, a loaded gun left on a digital table. And in a house like this, who knew the technology better than anyone? Who spent their life glued to a screen?
Piotr’s mind raced back to the porch. To the moment he had introduced himself.
"My name is Piotr Kowalski."
He replayed the boy's face in his mind's eye. Tyler. Lanky, bored, disconnected. Until he heard the name.
There had been a twitch. A micro-expression that Piotr had initially dismissed as a teenager simply reacting to a stranger's intensity. But looking back now, through the lens of Gordon's confession, it took on a terrifying new light.
Why would a seventeen-year-old boy in Illinois recognize the name "Kowalski"? Piotr was a titan of industry in Europe, not a celebrity. The boy shouldn't have known him.
Unless he wasn't recognizing Piotr.
Unless he was recognizing the name of the "product."
The flicker in the boy's eyes hadn't been confusion. It had been the deer-in-headlights look of a player who suddenly realizes the game has bled into reality. The look of someone realizing that his favourite toy has a father, and that father is standing on his front porch.
If Tyler had found the saved login… if he had hijacked his father's dormant account to explore the dark web…
The blood drained from Piotr’s face, leaving him colder than he had ever felt in his life. The screaming wife, the sobbing husband—they faded into background noise. The monster wasn't the man cowering on the floor. The monster was much younger, and he had just been sent out of the room.
Piotr turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto the closed kitchen door.
"Where," Piotr asked, his voice a whisper that cut through the room like a razor blade, "is your son?"
Next Chapter (20) - Martin
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