The parade of black cars slipped through the streets with ease, Natalya's gaze fixed out of the window. Moscow flashed passed her, Natalya barely able to commit any of it to memory. She didn't want to fixate on the very real possibility that she wouldn't see it again for a while.

Sasha had been placed in another car. She supposed that was so they couldn't fabricate a story together. Not that they would listen to anything either of them had to say. They could only be going to one place.

Butyrka.

Natalya tried to suppress the shiver that spread through her. Butyrskaya Prison was notorious. So many people were dragged through its gates, and yet so few ever made it home. She'd never seen it in real life; its reputation alone was enough to strike fear into everyone's hearts. Was Sasha afraid? Did she want him to be? Perhaps a part of her did.

Sinking down into her seat, Natalya watched as Butyrka appeared on the horizon. The closer it crept, the close she was to descending into tears. It would do her no good and yet it somehow felt necessary. Still, she wouldn't give in. It wasn't her way.

They drove in through Butyrka's looming gates and Natalya took a deep, calming breath. She didn't want to be frightened, even as the gate clanged shut and the prison towered over them. It was a drab, dirty red brick building. It had none of the old world majesty that many Moscow buildings did. This was purely functional. Even the white brick that adorned the doors seemed faded and lifeless. Barbed wire curled around the high fence and every window was covered in heavy, iron bars. Claustrophobia was rife, its grasp already tight around Natalya.

The parade halted. Sasha and Natalya were tugged out of their cars, both of them herded towards the main doors. The man set to guard Natalya kept a firm grip on her shoulder. She attempted to shrug it off, so he grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She hissed in pain, terrified that it would break and ruin any hope of return to her former life.

Her exclamation stirred Sasha to intervene. 'She is half your size!'

They only ignored him and continued to march forward.

Potapov awaited them inside, his expression tired again. How interesting that his could be so easily drained of vigour. 'Process him.' He pointed at Sasha. 'I'll deal with this one first.'

Natalya's scowl remained unmoved. The prison scared her. This man did not. He was a weasel whose only security and strength was in the position he had been given.

Sasha called out to Natalya as they began to drag him away, his eyes pained as his lips held the curve of her name. What if she never saw him again? Why did he suddenly look like the young man she had met all those years ago?

'Can I not say goodbye?' she asked, surprising herself and Sasha alike.

'Do you not think you'll be seeing him again?' asked Potapov.

'He's my husband, Commander Potapov.'

Potapov simply waved his hand lazily so that Sasha was led away.

Staring at her shoes, Natalya breathed deeply through her rage and didn't resist the hand that now clutched her arm and allowed it to lead her away. She was shoved down a flight of stairs. Low chatter mingled with intermittent coughs as her footsteps echoed off the damp steps. Excrement permeated the air, the atmosphere thick and tight in Natalya's throat.

She was hurried past a long, clinical corridor of cells and only just managed to catch a glimpse of the tens of women inside. They were crammed into the long rooms with only iron bars for an outer wall. All of the women looked dirty and drawn, their eyes bloodshot with heavy bags underneath. They barely looked up at the new arrival. One of the women seemed to have drifted to sleep, so a nearby guard clanged his baton on the bars to startle her awake.

Natalya kept her face in a firm, hard stare. She would not be intimidated by this. Though, if she was honest, all she wanted was to turn and flee. She wanted to run home to her grandmother and hide in the safety of her embrace. She wanted to go back three weeks and talk to Micha.

Her focus on the path ahead, Natalya's foot caught on the cracked, uneven tiles and sent her sprawling to the floor. Hastily, she sat up to inspect herself, her cheeks flushed in humiliation. Her palms were grazed, the blood and torn skin just visible beneath black grime. She wouldn't wipe them on her dress; she had just pressed the pleats last night. A closer look showed that it would be futile as the skirt was torn at the knees.

Suppressing the regret that ached in her throat, Natalya used the wall to haul herself up, her dirty hands smearing against the cold white tiles. Just on her feet, she was shoved forward again and managed to catch herself from falling a second time.

The further on they ventured, the open units began to disappear, replaced with a series of smaller, more intimate cells with heavy metal doors, all painted in an ugly milk green. Natalya couldn't help but wonder who these ones were intended for. None of the women she had seen so far seemed able to lift a finger, much less incite revolution.

At last, she was taken through the closed door at the very end of the corridor. It was a barren interview room with very little light and a lingering musty smell. There were no lamps, and only a singular, small window high up on the wall.

Potapov thrust her into the nearest seat as the door shut behind them and Natalya rubbed her arm indignantly. He sat across from her and said nothing, content to allow her to stew. Perhaps it was another way to intimidate her, though he did seem to mull something over in his head. Maybe he needed a breather.

Ignoring the rapid pace of her heart, Natalya instead made a show of looking lazily around the room. Potapov had to remain ignorant to her trepidation. 'I don't like how you've decorated your office.'

Potapov's eyes narrowed. 'Being deliberately obtuse is not going to help you.'

Natalya focused on him again, trying to seem bored. 'Is there anything that can help me at this point?'

'Cooperation.'

'How? I don't have anything to tell you.'

'You expect me to believe that you knew nothing about your husband's activities? Or more to the point, were not a dissident yourself?'

'I'm not stupid enough to get tangled up in all of that,' Natalya retorted. 'And we have not been close for a long time, Commander Potapov. I haven't really known who he is for years now.'

'And yet, you still wanted to say goodbye to him?'

Natalya shifted a little. She should have known better. 'Yes, well, sometimes sentiment can get the best of us.' There was a long silence and she resolutely avoided his gaze.

'How often did he meet up with ?'

'All the time.'

His sharp, frustrated breath indicated for her to elaborate.

'They used to drink together most nights, at our apartment. Sometimes they would go elsewhere.'

'Where did they go?'

'I never went with them.'

Potapov let out a grumbling sigh and looked at the notes he held in his lap. 'Do you know two men called Andrei Solovyov and Micha Novikov?'

Natalya tensed at the mention of Micha's name and finally fell silent. Her sorrow threatened to claw its way onto her tongue, Micha's face filling her subconscious as if in punishment.

'Were they friends of your husband?'

'Micha was a friend to my family also,' she admitted, her throat dry. 'And Andrei was best man at our wedding.'

'Must have been hard for your husband when Andrei was brought here, then?' He leant towards her, one eyebrow slightly cocked. He knew he was onto something and seemed overly satisfied with himself.

Natalya regained a slither of her façade. 'Yes. He was greatly saddened.'

'And when Micha and his daughter died... you both must have mourned them.'

She said nothing.

'Such a horrible way to die. To burn... so painful-'

'Enough!'

Potapov's eyes lit up. 'Shall we look at the sequence of events?'

Natalya's brow furrowed. 'What sequence-'

'That led you here.'

Slumping back in her chair again, Natalya remained unwilling to cooperate. She didn't want to remember her path here. It would only lead to ruin.

'Andrei is taken in by us, Micha tragically dies, then Andrei's wife tells us that both Boris and your husband were involved with the other two and this group.'

Natalya glanced at Potapov. She despised his protruding chin and beady eyes. He was repellent inside and out. In disgust, she found her nerve again. 'Well you did take away her children... and her finger.'

'And that they had something to do with Micha's demise.' A long silence followed. 'Finally! She has no retort.'

A huffy laugh spluttered from her mouth. She hadn't meant to, but it delighted her to know full well it would enrage him. 'Why be pleased about that? You're supposed to make me talk.'

'You know something about this group, you filthy zechka,' he spat, his voice cracking in frustration.

Good. She'd broken him. 'You shouldn't waste your time on me, Commander Potapov,' she returned, smugly. 'I don't know anything.'

'We'll see about that.'

The guard behind her tugged her to her feet, Natalya surprised by the sudden grip of rough hands. Potapov led the way back down the corridor. Natalya made sure to keep her eyes down at her feet, so she didn't catch the gaze of the women when she was inevitably thrust amongst them. To her surprise, they stopped in front of the individual cells, and she was thrown inside. Potapov watched her as she looked around at her dingy cell.

Her chest heaved heavily, but she gritted her teeth and attempted to remain stoic. 'Finally, some peace and quiet,' she muttered, loud enough for Potapov to hear.

He looked enraged and seemingly attempted to quell his anger. Shutting the door, he marched away, his boots on the tiles leaving a loud echo in his wake.

Natalya's face fell the moment he could no longer see her. She sat down on the tatty bed they had provided, the creak of the old, rotting wood welcoming her to her new home. Burying her face in her hands, her nails dug into her skin to stop herself from crying. She didn't deserve to let it out.

Not after everything she had done.