Chapter 1: Poranna prowokacja
The first thing Wiktoria felt was the phantom sting. It woke her a full minute before her phone alarm blared, a deep, throbbing memory in the muscles of her backside. She lay face-down, the imprint of her crumpled sheets on her cheek, and let out a soft groan into the pillow. The last day of school.Judgement day.Her room was a monument to her own chaos. Pink and purple fought for dominance on the walls, losing to the landslide of discarded clothes, empty energy drink cans, and makeup palettes with shades smashed into a rainbow grit. The air was thick with the scent of cheap, candy-floss perfume and something underneath—stale sweat, the ghost of last night’s rebellion. Her desk groaned under the untouched weight of textbooks, their spines still crackling-new. Failure had a particular smell, and it lived here.She kicked off her duvet. The movement made the thin cotton pajama pants slide down her hips. She left them there, pooled around her ankles, and stood up.The morning air was cool on her bare skin.This was the routine. The walk of shame, but a preemptive one. Better to get it over with, to show up and take it like she had some shred of dignity left. If she went to Oskar herself, maybe it would be quicker.Maybe he’d be half-asleep and lenient.
She didn’t bother with a shirt. Her long blonde hair was a tangled curtain down her back as she shuffled out of her room, the pants hobbling her steps.The hallway floorboards were cold and unforgiving. Oskar’s door was ajar. She pushed it open, her heart a dull thud against her ribs.“Osk—” The name died in her throat.It wasn’t Oskar. It was Zosia, sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. She was already dressed in black athletic shorts and a tight tank top, her long black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. In her hands, she was slowly, meticulously, folding a long, thick strap of brown leather.Her soldiny pasek. The buckle gleamed dully in the morning light filtering through the blinds.Zosia looked up. Her piwne eyes, usually warm with a sharp humor, were flat and assessing. A slow smile touched her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the smile of a predator who’d found the mouse already in its trap.“He’s at work,” Zosia said, her voice calm. “Early shift. Told me you’d probably be by.”
Wiktoria’s blood ran cold.Her own nakedness felt suddenly terrifying, a vulnerability she hadn’t intended. She clenched her hands at her sides, the defiance flashing hot to cover the ice in her veins. “Where is he?”
“I said.Work.” Zosia stood up. The pasek unfurled from her hands, one end hitting the floor with a soft, threatening slap. She took a step forward.“You came for a hiding, didn’t you? For your report card.For not passing. For being a lazy little shit all year.”
“I came for Oskar,” Wiktoria spat, lifting her chin. “You’re not Oskar.”
“I know.” Another step.The space between them evaporated. Zosia was taller, her athlete’s frame solid where Wiktoria was slight. The scent of her clean sweat and coconut shampoo overpowered the cheap perfume still clinging to Wiktoria’s skin.“I’m better. Oskar gets sad.I don’t.”
Wiktoria’s bravado cracked. She took an involuntary step back, her ankles catching in the fabric of her pants. She stumbled, throwing a hand out against the doorframe to steady herself. The movement was pure retreat, and they both saw it.Zosia’s smile widened, genuine now.She loved that flash of fear. “He gave me permission, you know.For today. Said if you showed up looking for it, I was to handle it.Thoroughly.” She let the word hang. “But honestly, Vika… I don’t really need his permission.You know that. Not when you’ve been such a constant little prickly bitch all term. Not when I’ve had a really, really bad week.”
A cold knot tightened in Wiktoria’s stomach. The deliberate provocation, the swearing, the slamming doors—it all rushed back. She had done it to needle Zosia, to poke the bear, because the reaction was predictable, a dark game she couldn’t stop playing.But now the bear was awake, and the cage was open.
“I didn’t—” Wiktoria started, her voice thinner than she wanted.
“You did.” Zosia closed the final gap. Her free hand, strong and calloused from weights, shot out and caught Wiktoria by the back of the neck. It wasn’t cruel, just inexorable, like a vise closing.“All that mouth.All that attitude.And for what?You still failed. You still ended up here, with your pajamas around your ankles, presenting this,” she gave Wiktoria a slight shake, “to me. Pathetic.”
Tears of pure, hot humiliation pricked Wiktoria’s eyes. She struggled weakly, but Zosia’s grip was immovable. “Get off me!”
“Or what?” Zosia’s breath was warm against her ear.“You’ll call me a cow?You’ll tell me to fuck off? Go ahead.Every word buys you another ten with the belt.I’ve got all day. My mood’s been terrible lately.You have no idea.”
Wiktoria froze. The fight leaked out of her, replaced by a heavy, familiar dread.She knew this script. She’d written it herself with every provocation. Her eyes fixed on the belt in Zosia’s other hand, the well-worn leather that had seen so much of her own pain.
Zosia felt the surrender in her muscles.She gave a soft, approving hum. “That’s better.” She guided Wiktoria, not back into her own room, but down the hallway towards the living room. The shameless walk she’d intended for her brother became a forced march under Zosia’s control.The cool air on her exposed skin wasn’t freeing anymore; it was an accusation.
“Please,” Wiktoria whispered, the word escaping before she could choke it back.
Zosia stopped at the entrance to the living room. She leaned in, her voice a low, thrilled promise.“Later. You’ll be begging a lot more, and a lot louder, than that.After I’m done, you won’t even remember your own name. Just the color of your ass. And my name on your lips.”
She pushed Wiktoria into the center of the room, where the morning sun streamed in, merciless and bright.“Now.Assume the position. And don’t you dare get up until I say so.”