Chapter 34 - Surrounded
The doorknob gave way with a metallic sound that seemed to echo throughout the basement. The iron door swung open with a slow hiss, expelling a cold, damp air that smelled of dust and scrap metal. On the other side, huddled in the trapdoor, was Isabella—pale, eyes wide, as if she'd slept too little and seen too many nightmares at once.
"Isabella!" Dante's voice tore through the silence. It was a scream, more than a call; the tone held all the desperation of someone who thought they'd lost someone forever.
They ran. Alexander with a calculated stride, Dante with his chest burning with haste. The stone floor shook beneath their footsteps, faces passing in a blur of intent. Isabella tried to get up, hands grasping for strength in the concrete.
"Don't come! It's a trap!" the voice stumbled, a sincere and terrified warning.
But protective instincts don't respect orders. Before she could finish her sentence, Dante was already two steps away, Alexander on the other side—it was impossible to miss. Dante reached out to grab her, pulling her back abruptly, Alexander holding her arm firmly. For an instant, everything seemed to align: rescue, relief, an end to the anguish.
Then the door creaked again.
Men flooded the corridor as if emerging from within the walls: dozens of them, all dressed in dark, their faces grim, their steps synchronized. They carried no visible weapons, but their presence was like an iron barrier. In the center, calm, sovereign, stood the stalker—his hood pulled tight almost like a uniform, his face now exposed enough to see the expression of the one who had been masterminding this game.
"So now you'll have to tell me the truth," he said in a low, icy voice that brooked no argument. "Or no one will escape from here alive."
The sentence fell upon everyone like a marble bell. Dante reacted as he always did: with action and fire. He instinctively drew his gun and pointed it at the stalker, a natural, urgent movement.
"Shut up!" he roared, his voice breaking on the remote control.
The stalker raised his hand in an almost theatrical gesture of disgust. "Are you sure you're going to try that?" he asked slowly, almost amused.
Dante couldn't help himself. He pulled the trigger hard.
The click echoed. It was short, dry, and... empty. The mechanism creaked. Nothing pierced the air.
Dante stared at the gun in disbelief, as if expecting the bullet to appear out of nowhere. His expression changed from fury to confusion in a matter of seconds. Time, for a second, held everyone's breath.
The stalker smiled mirthlessly. "I removed the bullets from the gun," he said, with the cruel calm of someone explaining a horrible magic trick. "As I said before, you will tell me what happened to Helena or you will all die."
Alexander felt pressure in his chest, as if someone were pressing an invisible hand over his heart. He chose the honesty that burned within him: not because he wanted it, but because it was the only possible way out at that moment.
"We don't know," he said, his voice controlled, trying to maintain his reason. "We don't know what happened to her. Helena disappeared; it was unexpected for us too."
The stalker tilted his head, assessing every detail of Alexander's face like a Freemason would assess a cubit. There was an ancient mixture of doubt and pain in his eyes—that pain that isn't cured by excuses. The man in the hood seemed to sniff out any hesitation as if it were a clue.
"Not knowing isn't enough," the stalker retorted, a thread of impatience cutting through his words. "Not when I have time on my side and you have the past against me. You were the last people she was seen with. You were the last people to compete for her smile, her confidences. You have omissions. And omissions, over time, become complicity."
Dante gritted his teeth until his cheeks trembled. Anger shook his body. "We looked for her," he roared. "We called the police, knocked on every door, searched streams and woods. You can say what you want, but we did everything we could to find her."
"And if you can't find someone, Dante, no matter how much you knock on doors, that doesn't prove innocence," the stalker replied, without even taking his eyes off the two of them. "Sometimes, the things we want to bury are the ones that define us most."
Isabella, still trembling, tried to take the lead: "Please, we don't know! I... I was brought here later. They said..." she swallowed her terror, "they said I needed to hear the truth. And I... I don't know who to trust anymore."
One of the men, without removing the mask from his face, approached slowly and pushed a chair in front of them. The gesture had the ceremonial qualities of someone holding court. The stalker calmly pushed Isabella into the chair, as if placing her on a temporary throne.
"Let's start over," the stalker ordered. "You tell us what happened that night. Every word, every movement. I want to reconstruct everything chronologically. If one of you lies, we'll know. And the price will be high."
The threat was posed. There was no more noise outside; inside, only breathing, footsteps that mingled with tension. Alexander took a deep breath, feeling as if layers of dust from the past were rising from the ground and falling on him.
"The last time Helena was seen," Alexander began, his voice low, "was here, in this house. She came to spend a few days. There were dinners, conversations, silly arguments like any group of friends. The night she left… she said she needed air, went to the clearing near the house. We argued, tried to stop her, but she left. After that… nothing. We went looking for her again, called the police, searched everything."
Dante finished, his voice cracked with burning memories: "We have no intention of lying. We searched day and night. I retraced the trails myself, asked anyone who might have heard. We didn't understand. There were no signs of a struggle—just silence and mud where the footprints disappeared."
The stalker listened without interrupting, perhaps writing it down in his head, perhaps just recording every hesitation. He went to one of the walls, pulled out a hidden envelope, and placed it on the table as if it were a game-changing card.
"So tell me: why did Helena disappear?" he asked, staring intently, waiting for the truth or the lie to fall away on its own.
Alexander looked at Dante, searching for some final confirmation that would ease the weight building on his shoulders. They stared at each other—two men with the same heavy guilt—and finally, Alexander spoke:
"The truth is, we don't know. And it consumes us. We search, we make mistakes, we live with this emptiness." If there was a crime, if there was betrayal, I… have no way to prove it. I only know that the truth has left us alone with questions.
The stalker smiled, a smile without warmth, a smile that held the shape of promise and revenge. "So the game begins," he said. "You will reconstruct the night, and I will decide who lies. And know this: lies here will not be punished with words alone."
The shadows thickened around them. The unarmed men, who had seemed less dangerous before, were now a human wall. Time, which had brought them here, seemed the only fair judge—swift and implacable.
Dante stared at them, and for the first time, perhaps, realized that, beneath the hatred and haste, there also lay an ancient fear—the fear that some pasts will never be fully explained. Isabella, still stunned, looked at Alexander, then at Dante, searching for a thread of certainty. She found none. She found only ruins and the slow sound of footsteps that belonged to no one she loved.
And as the stalker waited, the room filled with memories counting down: every word Alexander and Dante spoke would be a shred of truth—or the spark that would ignite the violence he had promised. The table had become a courtroom; the chairs, witnesses. The lamps flickered. Outside, the world continued, alien and distant. Inside, the past exacted its price.