Half a day had passed when Plakhov found himself locked in his room. He tried everything he could, but it seemed there was no escape.

He knew he had to proceed cautiously, as he didn't know what to expect from these two. Finally, just as the sun was at its zenith, the door swung open. Margarita entered the bedroom carrying a tray with a plate emitting fragrant steam. She placed the lunch on the table, pushing back the chair invitingly.

"Eat, you haven't eaten anything since yesterday."

"Thank you, I'll refuse," Plakhov said, eyeing the plate suspiciously. What if they'd mixed it with something? He needed to keep his mind clear.

As if reading his thoughts, Margarita replied, "Don't worry, no one wants to poison you here." Seeing that Igor hadn't even moved, she took the first spoonful of soup to prove her innocence. "You see. I didn't die"

She stayed in the room for a couple more minutes to demonstrate there was no effect, then left. "So that when I come back, the plate is clean."

Igor continued sitting. When nothing but silence could be heard outside, he approached the table. First, he picked up a spoon, twisting it, thinking about how it could be useful. Thinking about it, he bent it a few times; its rounded handle could come in handy.

Having come up with something, he decided to try it out. Opening the window wide, he leaned out. Igor examined the fastening of the grate; it was secured with screws. Reaching for one, he tried to loosen one of the screws with the handle of the spoon. But the spoon kept slipping out of its core, only slightly turning the screw. After fiddling around like this for an hour, Plakhova managed to loosen the fastening slightly, but it wasn't enough, as there were still three more of the same kind left. Closing the window, he decided to continue a little later.

Distrustfully, he ate half a bowl of the now-cold soup. After all, he'd still need his strength.

As sunset approached, the door opened again, and this time two people entered the room. Margarita was clearing away the tray when Roman looked Igor up and down. "Okay, let's go. You need to take a shower."

Plakhov reluctantly stood up, and Roma let him go ahead so as not to lose sight of him. He led him to the bathroom on the first floor. Igor carefully examined the house, trying to memorize it thoroughly. When they entered the dim room with the smell of laundry detergent, Plakhov thought he'd be left alone. But Roman didn't move, saying in a level voice, "Take off your clothes, you're wearing the same ones for days."

Igor hesitated; he didn't want to become even more vulnerable in such a difficult situation.

"Well? What are you standing there for? Or should Dad help?" Igor's heart sank at these words, but he decided not to tempt fate and began to undress. He peeled off his T-shirt and socks, trying to delay the moment of complete nudity, so he slowly folded his clothes. But suddenly, Roman snatched the clothes from his hands and tossed them into the laundry basket. "Hurry up, please."

Gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to cover himself, he pulls down his underwear. Fine, he thinks, now Roma will leave and this awkwardness will end. But the older man has no intention of leaving; he turns on the faucet, turning the water to warm.

"Get in," he casually points to the bathtub, which is about a meter long. Swallowing his pride, Plakhov climbs into the short tub.

"Better if you sit down, kid," the man mutters, picking up the shower hose. Igor's face turns white with the realization that Roman is about to wash him.

"Come on, I'll..." the police captain tries to grab the hose, but instead a large hand lands on his shoulder, pinning him to the bottom of the tub, forcing him to sit up. "No, I don't want you to do anything."

A stream of warm water falls on his body, and Igor pulls his legs to his chest, trying to somehow regain some sense of dignity. The small bathroom wouldn't allow him to stretch his legs any further anyway.

A sudden cold drop of shampoo instinctively makes Plakhov close his eyes. Skilled fingers begin to wash his head with massaging movements. Igor tries to distract himself, to imagine he's somewhere else, just not here. He's brought out of his thoughts by the rush of water crashing down on him; he immediately holds his breath as Roman rinses the shampoo from his hair.

The man lathers the washcloth thoroughly and begins to wash Igor. Plakhov felt a wave of nausea from being touched like that. Roman continued to soap his body, as if he were a helpless patient. When the older man's hand moved lower, Igor, without thinking, squeezed his legs together, pressing them even closer to him.

"Stop it. There's nothing to be embarrassed about," Roman said, his tone slightly stern, his hand resting on his knee, trying to push his uncooperative legs apart. But Igor stood his ground. "Well, at least I can do this myself."

But instead of handing over the washcloth, Roman looked Igor in the eyes, causing him to blush even more. It was as if Roman was trying to assert his dominance over him, and in any case, he succeeded. Igor immediately looked away, relaxing his legs slightly and allowing the washcloth to wash between them. He wanted to disappear into the ground. He wish this nightmare would end. After rinsing Igor and helping him out of the bathtub, Roma hands him a towel. "Here!"

Igor wraps the towel around himself, trying to create the illusion of safety. Roman places a stack of clean clothes next to him, then distracts himself by the dirty laundry. Not completely dry, Plakhov hurries to pull on his pajama bottoms. Seeing that the man's back is turned, his hands begin to tightly wrap the towel.

Suddenly, the towel wraps around Roman's neck like a noose.

"Don't move!" Igor barks at him, throwing all his weight on the floor to hold the tall man back. "Open the door! Open the door!"

Groaning, Roma unlocks the door, the towel tightening with every second. Plakhov leads him like a horse in a harness, forward, away from the dead-end bathtub. After passing the hallway, the sound of breaking dishes suddenly came from the kitchen. Margarita, taken aback, smashed a cup.

"Igor! Darling, what are you doing?" the woman muttered angrily, looking from her husband to Igor. "Let him go."

Igor shook his head, tightening the noose even more. "No, give me your phone."

Margarita hesitated, her hand reaching for her pocket, but suddenly stopped. "No, that won't do. Let go of my husband first, and then I'll give you the phone."

"Okay, okay... You want a trade? Fine, then we give it to each other at the same time, understand?" Plakha explained seriously. The woman nodded in response, showing the phone.

Margarita carefully handed over the device as Igor loosened his grip. The policeman lets go of the towel and shoves Roman forward, sending him crashing into the table opposite. Like a tenacious monkey, he snatches the phone from the woman's hand.

His fingers quickly tap the buttons, dialing the police number, but all he hears on the other end is dialing. He takes a couple of steps back, his palms starting to sweat from nerves. He dials another number for Shishkin, his boss, but there's silence there too. No matter how many numbers he dials, backing away, not a single one picks up.

"There's no telephone communication here," Margarita says with cold calm. Igor looks up from his device in horror, seeing Roman and Margarita surrounded him. The scaffold takes another step back, bracing his back against the front door, his hands immediately searching for the doorknob or lock.

"Give me the key," Igor asks, swallowing nervously. He's tense, ready to fight or flee, despite being cornered. "Oh, no, sweetie, we won't give you that. But we can give you something else you're really not going to like," Margarita's calm voice suddenly turns stern.

The captain realizes the situation has reached a breaking point and he needs to act. He abruptly takes a run for it, trying to slip between the elderly couple. But he doesn't expect strong arms to catch him. Igor prepares to slip out of them when suddenly, something sharp hits him in the neck. He's taken aback by this, giving Roman the chance to pin his hands behind his back.

Plakhov feels something injected into his bloodstream, causing an unpleasant burning sensation. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Margarita holding an empty syringe.

His legs begin to buckle, his tongue grows limp, his eyelids ache to close. "What... are you... there?"

Roman scoops Igor up as if he were a sack of potatoes and carries him upstairs. The last thing Plakhov remembers is finding himself in the bedroom, something wrapping itself around his limbs, pinning him to the bed.