⧗ CHAPTER TWO ⧗

Welcome back.

Those words shook Dmitri to his core. He'd been here before? When? Why couldn't he remember? Father had never mentioned that.

Father. Thinking about him left a sick twist in Dmitri's gut. Lev Kasyanenko had always portrayed himself to be a completely normal banker to his son. A powerful banker, sure, but normal. Not a member of the KGB. Of HYDRA. Dmitri still couldn't wrap his head around it, but he knew better now than to trust anything that man said, or had told him before. Dmitri's entire life up to this point had been a lie. Dmitri had to get used to that. Everything he was ever told, ever experienced — all cast into doubt. He could never take anything at face value again.

Even now, Dmitri realized he knew very little of the Red Room. Father had spoken about it in vague terms, but Dmitri had understood the core concept: that this place will prepare Dmitri for the hostile world that waited for him outside these doors. His father had made too many enemies and now Dmitri had no one left to protect him, he was open and vulnerable and still so young and scared and confused — Dmitri knew he wouldn't last a second against those people who'd want revenge, who'd take it anyway they can. Even on someone like him. Someone who had no idea.

Just to make him hurt.

But now Dmitri was learning something new, and he had no idea what to make of it.

The Madame watched his expression carefully, her smile compassionate as she stroked his cheek. "Oh, don't worry, dear. The memories will come back in time, I'm sure. For now, let's get you reacquainted. Maybe that will shake some things loose, hm?"

Dmitri could only nod mutely, trying not to cringe away from her overly-familiar touch. Like she knew him. The Madame had been able to read him so easily, it sent a chill down his spine. Did his confusion truly reveal so much?

The Madame turned on her heel and gestured for Dmitri to follow with a flick of her hand. It was delicate yet commanding at the same time, and Dmitri stumbled to follow. As they turned down another corridor, this one just as grand and elegant as the last — shell sconces glowing warmly along brocade walls, illuminating grand oil paintings of times gone by, the cool marble floor in a myriad of geometric patterns — Dmitri could barely listen to what the Madame was saying as his mind warred with the reality thrust upon him. Doubt plagued his mind. He couldn't have been here before, he would remember. He knew he would have. This place was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

But Dmitri had never gone to a school like this growing up. He'd lived in St. Petersburg for most of his life, his early childhood spent in America with Mum. Then once a year or so for a week with her, after the divorce. Mum simply had too much work to do as a big important journalist, and Father would be damned if he ever let Dmitri grow neglected, especially outside of Russia. And yet Mum had fought so bitterly over it. Dmitri didn't know why.

Just another person he doesn't want to think of right now, the pain much deeper. His mother, gone now. Dmitri could still see the car exploding, right before his eyes. For a moment, he felt ill.

"We start schooling at a young age," The Madame's voice filtered through his thoughts as they stopped at the threshold of one room. Inside was another studio, a wall of windows and barres. Only this time, a line of young girls no older than five were leaning on them, extending their right legs as high as they could reach, some tottering awkwardly with the attempt. A woman walked up and down the line, using a thin rod to help the girls achieve the correct angle of their feet. "Comrade Sidorova oversees the dance training of all our young recruits. Comrade Barinova takes care of the older students, you'll be seeing her soon enough."

The Madame flashed him another smile. "Once you've recovered, of course." And with that, she moved on.

Dmitri frowned and adjusted the strap of the sling around his neck, walking quickly to catch up with her. The Madame moved with surprising speed. "The doctors said I'd never dance again."

"Yes, of course they would." the Madame scoffed, her chin lifting with contempt. "But those western doctors don't have what we have. Don't worry, Dmitri, we'll have you back in working order in no time at all, I promise."

"How?" Dmitri asked, baffled. The damage the gunshot did was tremendous — the broken shoulder blade and collar bone, the torn ligaments and muscle. His arm would never function the same way again, wouldn't have the same grace and flexibility he had before. The doctors said with enough practice, he may even be able to brush his teeth again with that hand.

"In due time," was all she said, with a mysterious smile. And as light as the Madame's voice sounded, so self-assured, it also carried a significant tone: no more questions.

Dmitri found himself obeying, even as his curiosity persisted.

Sometimes he could still feel the bullet ripping through his shoulder.

Dmitri tried to ignore it as he followed the Madame. That aching pain, the odd sense of something burning from the inside. His hands going cold. It followed him here, even after all these months.

The girl, her pale hair tucked in a braid. The laugh he had loved so much, gone. Her strong hands that had once pulled him to safety, no longer there.

Mia, her eyes like disks of ice behind the gun.

Dmitri had to shove that image violently from his mind before it got the better of him. Even now, his heart started to race, a cold sweat forming on his brow just at the thought. His former friend, his woeful little crush, firing the gun to kill both him and his father.

He thought Mia was just an average American girl. He had been wrong.

"Here, we also teach etiquette, languages, chemistry," The Madame's voice cut through his thoughts again, and Dmitri struggled to focus on her voice, to anchor himself to this moment. Not get lost in another panic attack. He didn't want to have a breakdown his first day here. "We ensure every young woman is fully equipped with all the skills she needs to survive in the outside world. Not all of them graduate, but those who do, they succeed beyond all measure."

They passed rooms and rooms; classrooms with rows of desks, or lab tables, or a mock-up of a dining room. Each one filled with girls of various ages, from five to eighteen; all dressed identically, in black dresses or black uniforms. Very little individuality except for their personal features, and most notably in the various ways they did their hair. Ponytails, buns, and braids of various designs. Long, straight, wavy, curly, kinky. Very little decoration, maybe a ribbon or a hairclip. None of them seemed to be wearing jewelry.

Then they stopped in front of one open door in particular, and Dmitri was startled to watch two girls duel in hand to hand combat, in a circle surrounded by half a dozen of their classmates and teacher. The Madame allowed Dmitri to take it in before speaking in an undertone, "Self-defense is also a key part of our syllabus. You'll be learning that, too."

Self-defense? Dmitri didn't know a goddamn thing about combat. That was more Mia's — no, don't think about her — He was a ballet dancer, or was, at least. Dmitri had the physique suited for it, tall and thin, but he didn't think that would make him suited for combat. Dmitri was also pretty sure he screamed that one time he got mugged in New York. So.

Perhaps sensing his doubt, the Madame added, "Do not underestimate yourself, Dmitri. Here in the Red Room, it is not size or strength that matters, but skill. All our girls are taught with the notion they will always be facing a larger opponent. It is only natural."

"If you say so," Dmitri mumbled, casting another doubtful look at the sparring girls. Indeed, both were rather small in frame, smaller than him. And if they could do it, perhaps he could, too. If he didn't have a busted arm. Ballet was one thing, but this? Dmitri wasn't so sure. And there was another thing. "Are you sure I belong here? I mean, I'm not…"

He gestured vaguely to himself; Dmitri knew he didn't pose the most masculine or imposing of figures, not heavy with muscle nor growing even the wisp of a beard. Even at seventeen Dmitri should be seeing at least a little scraggly peach fuzz, as unattractive as that would be, like his male friends at home. But no. Aside from a shock of copper hair and freckles, Dmitri was starting to think he was doomed to a fate of never having to shave a day in his life.

But even with all of that taken into account, Dmitri was sorely lacking in a few key… parts that all the students here shared with each other.

He was too embarrassed to say it, but the Madame just smiled and chuckled gently as they continued on once more. "A girl? Yes, I'm well-aware." Her wry tone had Dmitri flushing. "It's true, we have not trained a male student here in a long time. A very long time. But you, Dmitri, you've shown aptitude before. I have faith you can graduate from the Red Room."

Something hung in the air, something unsaid between the clicking of her heels. Or else.

Dmitri swallowed, his throat dry as he remembered his father's warning that day in the hospital. That the Red Room would be the most difficult undertaking of his life. That he might not succeed. But so far, aside from the physical aspects, Dmitri didn't see anything that was particularly difficult or out of the ordinary — and nothing that alarmed him, either.

How hard could graduating be?

Even still, as the Madame continued with the tour, their destination being the great hall — Dmitri struggled to find anything familiar around him. A scrap of memory, anything to indicate he had been here before as she said. But there was nothing. Was she lying to him, too? Why? Dmitri couldn't fathom it. The Red Room seemed nothing short of a fantasy, a school set in a beautiful palace in the middle of nowhere. Full of talented young girls and stoic professors.

"Tell me, Dmitri, how many languages do you speak?" The Madame asked.

"Erm," Dmitri felt stupid for having to think about it. "Well, Russian, of course. English. A little bit of French. That's it."

"Hm," The Madame tsked, and it was the first sign of dissatisfaction he'd seen — and it sent an inexplicable wave of pure fear through Dmitri. He didn't want to disappoint her. He didn't want to do something wrong. He only just got here. But then she just sighed and nodded, "Well, I should have known your father would fail to keep up in your studies when you weren't here. But it's no matter. I'll have you on an adjusted course until you've caught up with the rest of your class. It will be intense, I must warn you, Dmitri. You're very behind compared to the other girls, and in order to graduate with them, you'll need to be on the same level."

Dmitri already knew this, at least. It daunted him, just a little. But he was feeling a little bold, too. At this point in his life, he had nothing left to lose. "I know. I'm ready."

That must have been the right answer, because the smile the Madame gave him had Dmitri swelling with joy. "Good. Then it's time we reunite you with your sisters, yes?"

"Sure." Dmitri said, pausing slightly at the phrasing. Sisters? Then again, this was a private school, and that kind of familial atmosphere seemed par for the course. Dmitri was a single child of a dead mother and fugitive father. He had no family, either. Maybe it would be nice to find a new one here.

"Wonderful," and with that, the Madame continued to the final leg of their journey. "Lunch will begin shortly. Afterwards, you'll have your syllabus. I can escort you, if you like. I know this place is quite labyrinthine."

Dmitri almost said no, not wanting to come off childish and stupid — but she was right. Dmitri couldn't even remember how they got here, to the wide double doors in front of them. "I-I would appreciate it."

Again, it seemed he hit the correct answer. The Madame beamed and patted his good arm. "No need to be afraid, Dmitri. I'll have you settled so quickly, it'll be like you never left at all."

With a sweep of her arms, the doors opened, revealing a large dining hall, curtained windows on either side, and long rows of tables filled with all the girls he'd seen thus far, and more. There were chandeliers, soft classical music playing from a source he couldn't detect, and even a gallery above, in which shadowy figures lurked.

But his eyes couldn't stay up there for long. Dmitri was rather taken aback by the size of the student body, and also how they all gathered here without him noticing the exodus. How long had they been wandering the halls? Dmitri found himself disoriented, having lost track of time.

From left to right, the tables were filled with girls of increasing age and decreasing numbers. On the far left were the youngest class, and the most populous, about two dozen small girls all lined up, shifting anxiously and whispering. On the far end, the smallest class, the oldest, four girls of about eighteen years of age. Silent, stoic, unmoving. All beautiful, austere, like statues carved from marble.

At the far end of the room was the head table, where all the instructors sat. The only seat empty was the one directly in the middle, a large high-back chair unlike any of the rest.

Every head in the room, turning towards them. Dmitri, by virtue of loving an audience, never really had stage fright. But in this moment, he was petrified, and could feel the judgment of a hundred different girls. A variety of confusion, distaste, unwelcome. Dmitri had to fight the urge to turn tail and run. The only male presences here were among the instructors, but they looked even less friendly.

And yet, despite the deepset notion that he absolutely did not belong here, nobody stood up and called it out. In fact, the air seemed almost reverent as the Madame entered the room, entirely quiet. Each table was filled with a glorious array of food, from cold cuts to soup to bread and fresh fruit. A wonderful aroma filled the room. But every plate remained empty, clean. Not a bite touched. At first, Dmitri didn't understand why they hadn't begun eating yet, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning.

They were all waiting for the Madame.

Waiting for her command.

She gestured for Dmitri to sit at the table second to the right. Not the oldest class, but the one before. Six girls, whose gazes burned into him as he approached, and his face heated with matching intensity the closer he got. The tables were long, generous with space, and the six girls were clustered together, so he sat apart, giving them what he thought was a respectful amount of distance. They stared at him, but said nothing. No one moved except to watch the Madame take her place at the head of the high table. She lifted a small object next to her plate; a silver bell of ornate design. A delicate flick of her wrist, and the light ringing sound, as sweet as birdsong, reverberated like massive church bells.

And with that, the meal began.

All at once, the dining hall filled with noise. Chatter, movement, the clinking of glass and utensils, the scrape of spoons and the crunch of hungry mouths. To his left, the girls of his apparent class were already snatching what they wanted onto their plates. Dmitri was starving, but he waited, unsure if there was a hierarchy. One of the girls, a striking blonde with chilly blue eyes, smacked the hand of another girl when she reached for a cookie.

"You can't afford it," The blonde girl snapped, before taking the cookie for herself. The second girl, with black hair in a long braid, winced and her hand retreated.

"Remember what the Madame said," Another girl with auburn hair whispered to the wounded one. Her tone was compassionate. "We can't overindulge."

Dmitri was so taken aback by the display that he almost forgot he was hungry.

But it was only as he was reaching for one of the brioche sandwiches laid out (enough distance to avoid any smacks himself) that something occurred to Dmitri.

The Madame had never introduced herself.

And yet, his mind had already filled in the blanks. He'd already known.

And Dmitri understood, with a strange dread, that he had indeed been in the Red Room before.