Yusuf Al-Hapsia had been fishing for 43 years and thought the sea had already shown him everything. He was wrong. At 4:47 a.m., when the sun was still hiding behind the horizon and the sky above Alyashkhara was filled with the gray light of pre-dawn, an old fisherman noticed something white in the surf. At first I thought it was trash, plastic carried by the currents from all over the bay, then I took a closer look and dropped the net.
The body lay on its side, facing the water. The waves rolled lazily over the thin ones. Unnaturally thin legs. Joseph ran across the sand, forgetting about his sore knees, and prayed: “Let it be a mannequin, a doll, anything.” Not a doll, a living woman. He saw the ribs twitch under the skin, stretched tightly over them like wet paper.
Yusuf carefully turned her over onto her back and stepped back. The eyes were open, light, almost transparent. They looked at the sky, but they didn’t see it, they didn’t see anything. Hey! Yosuf patted her on the cheek. The skin is icy, although the water in the bay is warm even in March. Hey, can you hear me? Nothing. No sound, no movement.
Only this measured, barely noticeable breathing every 5 seconds, as if the body had forgotten how to breathe more often. Joseph reached for the phone and froze. On the woman’s wrists there were dark furrows, deep and crimson, in places revealing something white. bone. He had been fishing for 43 years, cutting up thousands of fish, but now he was feeling nauseous.
The handcuffs did it. Many months of handcuffs. He dialed the ambulance number, trying not to look at her back, but he already saw her out of the corner of his eye while turning her over. Round markings arranged in even rows. Some counted them, others burned them out methodically, carefully, like they put seals on documents. 23.
At Sultan Qaboos Hospital, her weight was recorded as 39 kg. Height 176 cm. Dr. Fatima Albalushi worked in the intensive care unit for 11 years. She saw accident victims, drowned people, drug addicts on the brink of death. But when the nurses undressed the patient, Fatima went out into the corridor and stood there for 3 minutes, pressing her back against the wall.
Then she came back because that’s her job. Multiple old fractures, she dictated [clears throat] into the recording device. And the voice hardly trembled. The ribs, left collarbone, and three fingers on the right hand fused incorrectly, without medical assistance. There were burn marks on the back, presumably cigarette burns, on the children’s backs.
Traces of prolonged fixation on the wrists and ankles. Partial alopecia. She paused, looking at the patient’s head. The hair, light and once thick, fell out in clumps. There were uneven strands left sticking out in different directions. Fatima. Nurse Aisha stood by the gurney with an x-ray in her hands. The face is white.
What? Look under the skin on your right forearm. Fatima looked. The image showed a tiny rectangle visible in the soft tissue between the radius and ulna . “It’s an implant,” Aisha swallowed. GPS chip. I saw these in a documentary. They are putting them on, she didn’t finish. There was no need . They are installed to track goods.
The patient did not speak, did not respond to light, sound, or touch, only breathed and sometimes blinked slowly, as if it required enormous effort. A plastic bracelet, white, medical-looking, with Arabic writing on it, was found on her left ankle. Fatima has been reading Arabic since childhood. Number 47 Fukr 2022. Inventory number.
The person has an inventory number. Fatima called the police, then went out into the hospital’s backyard, sat on the concrete curb and cried. For the first time in 11 years of work. 23 months ago this woman’s name was Alina Kovalenko. She was 23 years old. She dreamed of the Milan catwalks. Instead, she became item number 47 in the catalogue, never to be seen by the police.
This is a story about a dream turning into a nightmare, and it doesn’t start here, on the shores of Oman, or in a white-walled hospital. It starts in Odessa. 2 years ago from one message on Instagram. Odessa-Ukraine, January 2022. The Tairov region woke up slowly. The nine- story panel buildings, identical as soldiers in formation, exhaled steam from their windows. January turned out to be evil.
-15°, wind from the sea, batteries barely warm. In apartment 47 on the sixth floor, Alina Kovalenko stood in front of the bathroom mirror, sucking in her stomach. 86 60, height 176, 22 years old. Perfect for the catwalk, not good enough for Odessa. Alina, breakfast. Mom’s voice is tired and hoarse. Night shift at the hospital – 8,000 kryvnias per month.
My legs are buzzing from standing for 12 hours. I’m coming. On the wall of her room there are cuttings and sound. Kendall Jenner on the cover. Bella walks in Milan. Ukrainian Alina Baikova at the Chanel show. She also started from scratch, Alina thought every morning. She was also a nobody. The Style agency was located on Derebasovskaya in the basement of a former cafe.
Director Viktor Semyonovich, bald, leafed through her portfolio with a sweaty gold signet. Eh, shooting. Lingerie catalog $200. Alina clenched her teeth. Viktor Semyonovich, we talked about filming. Babe. He leaned back in his chair. Fashion in Odessa. These are wedding dresses for the store at Privoz.
If you want Milan, go to Milan. In the meantime, here’s the catalogue. You take it. She took it. My mother was diagnosed in March. Multiple sclerosis. Alina googled until 3 am, until the letters started to blur. Chronic progressive. Treatment with drugs that slow down development. Cost is $3,000 per month. 3,000 dollars. 15 lingerie shoots.
Every month without days off. Natalia Kovalenko sat in the kitchen, clutching a cup of cold tea. My hands were shaking. The first symptom. Mom, I’ll find the money. Alina, no need, I can handle it. People live with this. People live with treatment. Alina hugged her, fragile, aged in one day.
My father left when I was six, she thought. I won’t leave. By December, Alina was working herself to the point of exhaustion. Online casino advertising. It’s a shame, but $500. Photo session for an escort agency website. Just a photo, nothing more. 300. So far there have been 100 laughs at the exhibition. Not enough. There was never enough.
My friend Katya came to visit with a bottle of cheap wine and a phone. Look, she pointed the screen under Alina’s nose. Luxury Models Dubai. 15,000 subscribers. Girls write reviews. Everything is legal. Contracts, visas. Alina scrolled through the feed. Yachts, palm trees, girls in designer dresses.
“$5,000 per shoot,” Katya read. 5,000 25 filmings in Odessa or one in Dubai. Katya, could this be a scam? Maybe Katya shrugged? Or maybe a chance? You yourself said: “There is a ceiling in Odessa.” And then Alina looked at the photographs. Smiling faces hashtags #dbaill #modelingdereams #luxury lifestyle. Mom coughs at night.
“My medication runs out in a week,” she wrote at 2:00 a.m. I spent a long time typing, erasing, and typing again. Hello, I am interested in cooperation. Model 22 years old, 3 years of experience. I can send you my portfolio. Sent it and put the phone face down. No one will answer, she thought. This is stupid. It was the phone vibrating.
7 minutes. The answer came within 7 minutes. Alina turned the screen over. The heart beat loudly. Hum. Hello, Alina. We appreciate your interest. Your personality is a perfect fit for our clients in the Gulf. We are ready to discuss the contract. To start, you can send a few photos. She didn’t know that in three months she would become lot number 47, that a GPS chip would be inserted under her skin without anesthesia, that 23 burns on her back would mark her months of captivity.
She knew only one thing: her mother was sick and she needed money. And in Dubai they promise 5,000 for filming. Alina began typing a reply. Victoria Semenova was never in a hurry. After 4 years of work, she understood the main thing. Trust cannot be bought. It can only be grown, like a flower. Shower every day with little messages, random questions, and seemingly sincere participation.
34 girls, 34 flowers that she grew and cut. Alina Kovalenko will be thirty- fifth. The first week they just corresponded. Tell us about yourself, where you are from, what you are interested in. Alina answered cautiously. Odessa. 3 years of modeling experience , dreams of an international career. And the family? Parents are supportive.
3 minute pause before answer. Mom, only mom. She is sick. Victoria smiled. Here it is, the hook. I’m so sorry about her, if it’s not a secret, of course. And Alina told about multiple sclerosis, about $3,000 a month, about night shifts and trembling hands. Victoria read and made notes in the file. Number 35 dash.
The mother is ill, financial vulnerability is at its highest, and the willingness to take risks is high. This is terribly unfair. So young, so beautiful, and such a burden on her shoulders. You know, I went through this too. My mother. The lies flowed easily. Victoria has long been unable to distinguish where the role ends and she herself begins. January 2023.
The correspondence became daily. Victoria sent photographs. Here is the agency’s office in Dubai. White walls, panoramic windows, the Burch Khalifa on the horizon. Here are the girls on the set. Happy, tanned, in dresses that cost more than an apartment in Tatairova. This is Christina from Moldova. I arrived a year ago.
Currently filming for Wogbia. Alina looked at the photographs. Christina smiled at the camera, with white teeth and carefree manner. She didn’t know that Christina hadn’t been in touch with her family for months, that her phone was answering with Victoria’s voice. Kristina will call back later on the set, which will never happen later . Mom, I found a job. February.
The kitchen smelled of valerian and burnt porridge. Natalia was sitting by the window. My hands were shaking more than they had a month ago. What job, daughter? There is a modeling agency in Dubai . Contract for 2 weeks. Natalia looked up . Fear splashed through them. Dubai, it’s far away.
And these stories about girls who Mom, I checked everything. Alina opened the laptop. Look here. The agency is registered in Dubai. Legal address, license, online reviews, everything is clear. Natalia looked at the screen. The letters were blurry, either from tears or from illness. How much do they pay? 15,000 dollars. Silence.
15,000 is 5 months of treatment. 5 months when you don’t need to count pills. 5 months of life. What if it’s a scam? We will call each other via video. Tomorrow I’ll show you the manager. The video call took place at noon. Victoria was flawless, 34 years old, well-groomed, confident. Behind her is that same office with panoramic windows.
Natalia Grigorievna, I understand your concern. The voice is soft, warm. Any mother would be worried, but believe me, your daughter is in good hands. She said the right words about the contract, about insurance, about daily calls home. Natalia listened and wanted to believe. 15,000 dollars. “Okay,” she said finally.
But you will call every day. Every. Alina hugged her. I promise, mom, every day. March 2023, last evening in Odessa. Alina stood in the pharmacy, counting bills. Medicine for 2 months in advance. All she could save. “This is for the first time,” she told her mother, putting the boxes on the table. And when I return, when I return, everything will change. Natalia cried silently.
Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto her trembling hands. Darling, maybe we shouldn’t? Maybe we can manage somehow? Alina sat down next to her and took her mother’s hands, thin and covered in blue veins. Mom, this is the only chance at the airport. Flight Odessa-Dubai. Alina looked out the window.
Below is the Black Sea, grey and cold. Ahead is the sun, palm trees, 15,000 dollars. She didn’t know that Victoria Semenova had employed 34 girls over the past four years, and that file number 35 def f defисkr defис 2023 was already in the folder on her desktop. Alina Kovalenko. Status on the way. That in a week the number will be changed to 47 after the culling of the three previous lots, not one of the tritsatiche returned home of their own free will.
The plane was gaining altitude. Alina smiled. Dubai greeted her with a wall of heat. Alina walked out of the terminal and the air embraced her, damp, heavy, smelling of the sea and money. After Odessa in March, grey and chilly, this seemed like another planet. Miss Kovalenko. The driver held a sign with her name on it.
Black Mercedes with tinted windows, air conditioning, EV bottle in the back seat, everything as promised. Alina took out her phone and dialed her mother. Flew in. There is such sunshine here. Mom, they met me too. Everything is fine. Natalia’s voice is distant and anxious.
Dotya, are you sure you’re okay? It could n’t be better. The first shoot is tomorrow. Love you. Marriott Hotel. Twenty- third floor. View of the Persian Gulf. Alina stood at the window, not believing her eyes. Below there are swimming pools, palm trees, and yachts. Everything was sparkling. Everything screamed about money, which she never had.
She took a photo of the number and sent it to her mother. Look where I live. Three exclamation marks, 3 months of correspondence with Victoria, $3,000 a month for mom’s medicine. Everything will change soon. Morning, March 15th. “We’re going on a yacht today,” said the driver. Mr. Al-Mansour is waiting. Port Rashit.
Alina saw her from afar and forgot to breathe. Alshams. 60 m of snow-white luxury, three decks, a helipad. This can’t be real. There was a woman with a tablet standing on the gangway. Alina, welcome. I’m Marina, the filming coordinator. Smile. Perfect manicure. Perfect English. Take a photo as a souvenir, Marina pointed to the gangway.
All the girls are taking pictures. Alina took out her phone, stood on the gangway, and smiled. Pike. She didn’t know that this photo would be the last one, that her mother would show it to the police, consuls, journalists, that it would appear in the Interpol databases with the missing person mark.
There were four girls waiting on board. Russian Nastya, 19 years old from Rostov, nervously twisted the ring on her finger. Moldovan Kristina, that same Kristina, had not contacted her family for 8 months. She was smiling now, but her eyes were empty, like a doll’s. Moroccan Leila, 19, quiet, looked at the floor.
Filipina My, the only one who didn’t smile. Girls, Marina clapped her hands. Make yourself comfortable. Dinner 8. Mr. Al-Mansour wants to meet in person. The deer allocated a cabin on the lower deck, small, without windows. “That’s weird,” she shook her head. “It’s a yacht! Not all cabins can have a sea view.
Dinner, a table on the upper deck, sunset over the bay, Moët & Chandon champagne. And he is Faris Al Mansour, 47 years old. A Brioni suit. A Potek Philippe watch. A smile that made you want to smile back. Welcome to Al Shams. His voice is soft, enveloping. You are all here because you are special. He spoke five languages.
He switched from English to Russian, from Russian to Arabic, joked, asked about families, dreams, plans. Alina told him about her mother, about multiple sclerosis, about the catwalks of Milan. Faris listened attentively, Nodding looked into her eyes. “You will go far,” he said. I see. He sees.
She did not notice how Leyla shuddered at these words, how Christina clutched the glass with white fingers. Midnight. Alina woke up from the vibration. The yacht was moving. She stepped onto the deck. The lights of Dubai were disappearing over the horizon. All around was only black water. Where are we sailing? A voice behind her.
Akhmet, a security guard, 28 years old, with a stony face. “Sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow is a hard day.” Alina wanted to ask more, but something in his eyes made her remain silent. She returned to the cabin, lay down, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow is the first shoot. At 3:00 a.m., she heard a short, broken scream. Then silence.
Alina lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. It seemed she didn’t know that her cabin door was already locked from the outside. That the phone would lose network reception in an hour. That in Victoria Semenova’s file, her status had just changed. Number 3.5 defс F defс UKR defис 2023 arrow number 47 F hyphen UKR defис 2023 delivered. Three lots were rejected by this At night, Alina became forty-seventh.
The yacht sailed further and further into the Persian Gulf; by morning, the shore would disappear forever. Morning never came. Alina opened her eyes in absolute darkness. Not a strip of light under the door, not the sound of waves. Only the hum of engines somewhere below, monotonous, endless. She reached for the phone.
The screen showed 7:23. No network, not a single stick. We are far from the shore. Alina stood up. Her bare feet touched the cold metal. Yesterday there was a carpet here. She remembered it clearly, soft, creamy, now the floor was bare. She went to the door and pulled the handle. Locked, locked. Hey! Alina knocked. Hey, open up! Silence! She knocked harder, slammed her palms, shouted.
No one came. The door opened at noon. Akhmed, stone-faced. In his hands was a tray with water and a piece of bread. Where is Marina? Alina stepped back. What’s happening? Why the door was locked? He put the tray on the floor. Eat. I want to talk to Mr. Al-Mansour. There has been some mistake. I am a model. I have a contract. Contract.
Ahmet smiled for the first time. The smile did not reach his eyes. Yes, you have a contract. He left. The lock clicked. 3 days. For 3 days, Alina counted on the phone screen until the battery died. For 3 days she screamed, cried, beat on the door. For 3 days they brought her water and bread, sometimes rice.
Ahmet did not say a word. On the fourth day, the door opened wider. At the entrance: the corridor was narrow, without windows, pipes under the ceiling. The smell, machine oil and something else sweetish, nauseating. Ahmet led her down. Another staircase. Another one. How many decks are there on this yacht.
They stopped at the metal door. “Your new home,” said Ahmet. Cell, not cabin. Chamber 4 m sodium. Two bunks bolted to the floor. There’s a bucket in the corner. The lamp under the ceiling is dim and flickering. On [clears throat] one of the beds sat a girl named Leila. That same 19-year-old Morocco looked at the floor during dinner.
Now she looked up, her eyes empty, like Christina’s. “New girl,” she said in English. “Ukraine”. Alina nodded, her throat tightening. “How long, how long have you been here?” Leila turned her left hand. There is a thin, pink scar on the forearm . 3 months. The chip was installed in the first week. What chip? GPS. Leila spoke evenly, without emotion, so as not to run under the skin, without anesthesia.
Alina retreated to the wall. No, no, no, no. This is a mistake. I am a model. I have filming. There will be filming. Leila lay down and turned her face to the wall. They are just what you thought. Alina did not sleep that night, she lay looking at the flickering lamp. Mom, Mom is waiting for a call. Mom thinks her daughter is on set.
Mom is taking the medicine that Alina bought for 2 months in advance. The medication will run out in 2 months. After 2 months, mom will realize that something is wrong. After 2 months the door slammed. The light is harsh and blinding. Two security guards, unfamiliar faces. Forty-seventh. Get out ! Alina did not move.
They lifted her by the arms and dragged her down the corridor. She screamed, struggled, scratched uselessly. A small room, a chair that looked like a dentist’s, straps on the armrests and Faris Al-Mansour. He stood against the wall with his arms crossed. Same suit, same smile. Alina, he said softly, you wanted to go far.
They threw her into a chair and strapped her in. Faris came closer and leaned towards her face. You will go. Very far. He nodded to someone behind her. Alina felt the cold metal on her right forearm, then pain. She screamed so loudly that she lost her voice. Nobody heard. When they threw her back into the cell, Leila did n’t even turn around.
“Chip,” she asked. Alina couldn’t speak, she just looked at her forearm. A small cut, roughly sealed with a bandage, under the skin there is something hard, the size of a grain of rice. “You’re in the system now,” Leila said. Number 47, as in the catalogue. Number 47, apartment 47. She was 47 days old when her father first held her in his arms.
Coincidence? Just a coincidence. Alina closed her eyes. Somewhere above, on the captain’s bridge, a red dot appeared on the screen. Number 47 Fukr 2023. The yacht continued to move actively east, towards shores that are not on tourist maps. Time on a yacht was not measured in hours, it was measured in burns.
The first month after the chip, Alina did not remember why. Maybe she stood up too slowly, maybe she looked the wrong way, maybe just because they could. The cigarette touched the skin between the shoulder blades. 3 seconds. The smell of burnt meat. Her meat. She screamed. By the twelfth burn it stopped. Leila counted the days by food.
“Rice Monday, Wednesday, Friday,” she whispered. Bread. Rest. Sometimes Sunday is nothing. Alina listened and remembered. It helped me not to go crazy. Day 47, day 89, day 156. The numbers became an anchor. On day 203, Leila was taken away. Where? Alina grabbed her hand. Leila didn’t answer.
Her eyes, those same empty eyes, came to life for a second. “Survive,” she said. “just survive.” The guard pushed Alina away and the door slammed. She never saw Leila again. The loneliness was worse than the pain. Alina talked to herself, to her mother, to Katya, to her father, whom she had not seen for 16 years. “Daddy,” she whispered into the darkness.
You did n’t know, you didn’t know that it would happen like this. The darkness did not answer. On the 318th day, three fingers were broken. Right hand, index, middle, ring fingers. One after another. She didn’t remember why. The pain erased the memory. The fingers grew together crookedly.
Now she couldn’t fully clench her fist. Day 412. Ribs. The blow was so strong that she heard the crunch before she felt the pain. It became impossible to breathe. Every breath is like a knife between the ribs. For 3 weeks she lay on the bed, afraid to move. Nobody came. No doctors, no medicine. The body healed itself, as best it could.
Day 589. Clavicle. She fell down the stairs or was pushed. The line between chance and intention has long been blurred. The left shoulder hung lower than the right. And so it remained. My hair started falling out on the six hundredth day in clumps, whole strands on my pillow, if you could call it a pillow.
Alina looked at them and did not cry. The tears stopped somewhere between the fourth and fifth burns. Day 701. She was transferred. New camera, new yacht, new ship. She didn’t know, they were transporting her with a bag over her head. The only thing that remained unchanged was the bracelet on the tickle.
Number 47Fukr 2022. The year was wrong. Or correct, she no longer remembered what year it was. Day 847. Alina lay on her bed and counted her burns. 23 months. 23 even circles on the back, like the marks on a prison calendar. She weighed 39 kg. She knew this because she was weighed like a commodity, like meat.
Her number was 47. Her name? Her name? What is my name? She closed her eyes. My mother called me Silence. Mother. The mother’s face blurred. Tairova. Sixth floor. Apartment. What number? 47. No, this is her number. Catalogue number. My name is forty-seventh. The door clanged. Alina opened her eyes to the exit.
She stood up automatically, as she had stood up 847 times before. The guard led her down the corridor, but not to the room with the chair, but to the gangway. Fresh air hit my face. For the first time in her life she didn’t remember the sun. Below is a small boat, two men and Faris Al-Mansour.
He stood on the deck, looking at her. Same suit, same smile. Forty- seventh, he said. You were a good investment, but everything comes to an end. He nodded to the guard. Alina was pushed towards the gangway. End? She didn’t understand what the ending was. She was lowered into the boat. The engine roared.
Al-shams’ yacht was disappearing beyond the horizon, and the boat was heading towards a shore that wasn’t on the maps. And Alina, the creature that was once Alina Kovalenko from Odessa, looked at the water and tried to remember. Mother. Her name was Natalia. The name emerged from the darkness like a bubble of air. Natalia. Mother.
Something stirred in the void that used to be the soul. Something like a boat stopped. “Come out,” said one of the men. “The shore, the rocks, the darkness. “Come out,” he repeated. “And go where?” Her voice was hoarse. She hadn’t spoken for months. The man chuckled. “Wherever you want.” He pushed her into the water. Cold, salt, stones underfoot.
Alina fell, got up, fell again. The motor roared, the boat left. She was left alone. On the shore, in the darkness, with twenty-year-old burns on her back and a chip under her skin. Mom. She crawled to the shore. Mom. The stones cut her knees. Natalia. She crawled out onto the sand. Mom, I am darkness. At 4:47 a.m.
, fisherman Yusuf al-Habsi saw something white on the shore of A-lyashkhara. He came closer and shouted: “White ceiling! This is the first thing she saw. white ceiling with a lamp. The lamp didn’t flicker, didn’t hum, it just shone steadily and calmly. “Where?” She tried to move. The body did not obey, the arms were heavy, the legs were strange.
A room with a chair? No, the smell is different. Not metal and sweat, something clean. She opened her eyes. The voice is female, not angry. The face bent over her. Dark eyes, white coat. Can you hear me? Hear. She knew this word, it seemed. Blink if you understand. The eyelids dropped, rose. Fine. Very good. The woman smiled. My name is Doctor Fatima.
You are safe. Are you in the hospital? Hospital? The word floated in the void, not clinging to anything. What is your name? How about me? She opened her mouth, closed it. Number. My number. 40. The voice was strange, hoarse. 47. Doctor Fatima frowned. This is not a name. What is your name? Your name. Name. Emptiness.
I had a name. It was a long time ago. I She tried to remember. I didn’t Tears flowed on their own. She did n’t cry for 847 days. The tears stopped somewhere around the third hundred, but were still flowing . “It’s nothing,” the doctor said softly. “It’s okay, we’ll find out, rest.” 3 days. She lay and looked at the ceiling.
The nurses came, changed the IVs, and said something. She didn’t answer. 47, that’s all that’s left. 47. On the fourth day, a man in a police uniform came. “We found a bracelet on your leg,” he said through a translator. “Number 47, woman Ukraine 2022.” “Are you Ukrainian?” Ukraine. Something moved in the darkness.
Ukraine. Odessa. Sea. Another sea. Warm, kind. She blinked. We contacted the Ukrainian consulate. They are checking missing persons databases. Missing. I’m gone. Someone was looking for me. On the seventh day, Dr. Fatima brought a photograph. Look, she said. Is that you? The girl in the photo was smiling.
Long blond hair, bright eyes stood on the gangway of the yacht with the sunset behind her. Beautiful, alien. This photo was found in the Interpol database. Alina Kovalenko, 23 years old. Ukraine has gone missing. Alina. The name fell into the void. And suddenly it caught on. Alina. My name was Alina.
“Alinochka, that’s what mom said,” she whispered. Dr. Fatima leaned forward. What did you say? Mother. Louder. Natalia. Mother. Tairova. Sixth floor. Apartment 47. 47. What’s my number? No. The room is like an apartment. I was before the number. I was Alina. She started to cry. On the tenth day, she was shown a video.
A woman with gray hair and shaking hands sat in front of the camera. The eyes are red, the face looks 20 years older. “Alinochka,” the woman said. “Daughter, if you see this, I have been looking for you every day.” 792 days. I described it to the embassy. I sold my apartment. I went to the consul for 47 days straight until he started answering calls. 47 days.
She walked for 47 days. What’s my number? “I didn’t give up,” the woman continued. I knew you were alive, I felt it. Mom always feels. Alina looked at the screen. This is my mother, Natalia. She was looking for me. While I forgot my name, she remembered. “Mom,” Alina whispered and smiled for the first time in 847 days.
But at night the fear returned. She woke up from her own scream: “Just not wet from sweat.” The heart was pounding. He will find it. Chip. She grabbed her right forearm, the skin hard and small. There he knows where I am. Faris knows. Red dot on the screen. “Take it away,” she told the nurse.
“Please remove this .” He is watching. He will find it. The nurse called the doctor. Doctor Fatima arrived at 3:00 am. Chip. She looked at Alina’s forearm. We saw him on the x-ray. Is this a GPS tracker? Yes. Alina scratched her skin with her nails. Please remove it. He will come. He always comes.
Who? Faris Al-Mansour, Brioni suit. Potekf Philippe watches. You were a good investment. “ Master,” Alina whispered, and she herself was frightened by this word. Master. I had a master. I was a thing, a lot, a number. She looked at her hands. Three fingers on the right are crooked and do not bend completely. He did it. She ran her hand over his shoulder.
The left is lower than the right. And these 23 burns on my back burned with phantom pain. And we will remove the chip, said Dr. Fatima. Tomorrow, I promise, tomorrow. Alina nodded, but did not fall asleep until dawn, because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the yacht and Faris’s smile and heard his voice. You will go very far.
The chip was removed on the eleventh day. Small, like a grain of rice. The doctor showed it to “Olina in a plastic container.” “The police will take it as evidence,” she said. “This will help find those who did this.” Alina looked at the chip. 847 days. He was in me for 847 days. Red dot. Not anymore. She felt something strange: not joy, not relief, but emptiness.
Without a number, who am I? Without a chip, where am I? I was forty-seventh. So long. “Alina,” the doctor said softly. Do you hear? Your name is Alina. Alina Kovalenko. Alina Kovalenko. Odessa. Tairova. Mom, Natalia. The names returned slowly, one by one, like shards of a broken mirror. On the fourteenth day they told her: “Your mother is flying in tomorrow.” Alina froze.
Mom will see me like this. She looked at her hands. Bones stick out, skin is grey, fingers are crooked. 39 kg, 23 scars, half hair. Mom will see this. “I don’t want to,” she whispered. That I don’t want her to see this. Doctor Fatima sat down next to me. Alina, your mother sold the apartment to look for you.
I stood at the consulate for 47 days and wrote 300 letters. She wants to see you. Any, any. Alina closed her eyes. I’m not that girl in the photo anymore. I don’t even know who I am. 47. Alina, what is left of me? She’s arriving tomorrow, the doctor repeated. At 9:00 am. Alina didn’t answer. She thought about her mother, about her hands that shook more and more with each passing month, about multiple sclerosis, about 3,000 dollars.
I flew away to save her. And she sold the apartment to save me. Something cracked inside. Something that lasted 847 days. Alina started crying. Not before. Quietly, soundlessly, loudly, like a child. For the first time in 2 years. She cried like a living person. That night she had a dream. She stood on the yacht’s gangway. Sunset, phone in hand.
Take a photo, Marina said. Alina picked up the phone. But it’s not her in the reflection of the screen. The number is just number 47. She woke up screaming. It was getting light outside. Mom is arriving in 3 hours. Alina stood up and walked over to the mirror. For the first time in 847 days I looked at myself.
Who are you? The woman in the mirror was silent, thin. There are gray strands in his light hair, his eyes are old but alive. “Who are you, Alina?” – she whispered. The voice trembled. Alina Kovalenko. Louder. My name is Alina. The woman in the mirror nodded. My name is Alina. I am 24 years old. I am from Odessa.
I have a mother, her name is Natalia. And she’s flying towards me right now . Alina straightened up. 23 scars on his back stretched, crooked fingers clenched as hard as they could. I survived. Leila said, “Survive.” I survived. Footsteps were heard outside the door. Alina. The voice of a nurse. Your mother. The door opened and Alina saw her.
Gray hair, shaking hands, eyes red from tears. Mother. Natalia Kovalenko froze on the threshold, looking at her daughter, at what was left of her daughter. 39 kg, crooked fingers, gray strands, old eyes in a young face. “ Alinochka,” she whispered and stepped forward. “Mom,” Alina said, her voice breaking. Mommy, they met in the middle of the ward, two women.
One with multiple sclerosis and an empty wallet, the other with twenty-three scars and stolen years. Both are alive. Both found each other. “I was looking,” cried Natalia. Every day is 792 days. I remembered, Alina cried, your name. When I forgot my own, I remembered yours. They stood there, mother and daughter, hugging each other, and the sun was rising on Aman outside the window of the Sultan Qaboos Hospital.
But in Dubai, in Port Rashid, the yacht Al-Shams was preparing for a new voyage, and a new message was flashing on Victoria Semenova’s phone : “Hello, I saw your account. I’m a model from Kharkov. Is it true that you can earn $15,000 in 2 weeks?” Victoria smiled, opened a new file number 48 Fukr 2025 and began typing a reply.
3 months later. The Gulf of Aman breathed calmly, not like the Persian one. Here the waves did not hide secrets, here they washed them ashore. Alina stood in the very spot where Yusuf Al-habsi found her at 4:47 in the morning. The sand of Alashkhara was warm under her bare feet. “Are you sure?” Natalia asked.
Her mother’s hands were shaking more than before. Multiple sclerosis did not wait. But her eyes were firm. Yes, Mom. Alina held in her hand A plastic bracelet, number 47 Fukr 2022. It was removed at the hospital. She asked to keep it. “Why do you need it?” the doctor asked. “So I can remember?” Alina replied. “So I can’t forget.” Now she swung as far as her left shoulder would allow, forever lower than her right, and threw the bracelet into the sea.
The waves took it, carried it away. I’m no longer a number. The scar on her right forearm was fresh, pink, and clean. The chip had been removed a week ago. “A GPS tracker,” the surgeon said, showing the tiny capsule. “They could track you anywhere in the world.” Alina looked at the capsule. 2 years under the skin. 2 years.
A red dot on someone’s screen. “Destroy it,” she said. The surgeon nodded. “Now there’s just a scar where the chip used to be. One of many. But she chose this one herself.” Yusuf Al-Habsi came to say goodbye. The old fisherman stood on the shore, squinting from the sun. For 43 years he went out to sea, for 43 years he pulled out fish, and one day he pulled out a man.
“I’m glad you’re alive, daughter,” he said in Arabic. The translator repeated in English. Alina didn’t know Arabic, but she understood. She hugged the old man. He smelled of the sea and tobacco, like the grandfather she never had. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for not passing by, for calling, for being here.
” Interpol. Dmitry Savchenko, the same consul whose office Natalia had besieged for 47 days, was now calling every week. “The Al-Shams yacht was detained off the coast of Bahrain,” he reported for the last time. “Three more were found on board .” “Three? Of how many? “Ah, Faris?” Alina asked. “Pause.” Disappeared.
He has a diplomatic passport, connections, money, of course. But we are looking, of course. Alina knew that people like Faris Al-Mansour are rarely caught. They are too rich, too protected, too invisible. But three were found, three alive. That meant something. Victoria Semenova had disappeared. The Luxury Models Dubai account had been deleted.
15,000 subscribers had vanished. Photos of the office had been erased, but somewhere a new account was already being created with a new name, with the same promises. $15,000 in two weeks. Alina knew this, and that was why she had agreed to talk. The journalist from Reuters was young, younger than Alina, with a notepad and a voice recorder.
“Are you sure you want to tell?” she asked. “This will be public.” Alina looked at her hands. Three crooked fingers on her right. The grooves on her wrists were almost healed, but visible. “I was number 47,” she said. This means that before me there were forty-six, after me forty-eight, forty-ninth, fiftieth. She looked up.
If I remain silent, there will be more. The journalist was writing down: “How did you survive?” Alina wondered how. Leyla, a nineteen-year-old Moroccan with empty eyes. Three months in captivity before Alina. They took her on the 203rd day. Survive. The last word. “I had a friend,” Alina said. Her name was Leyla.
She taught me to count the days. She said: “Survive.” What happened to her? I don’t know, but I survived for both of us. Natalia sat next to her, listening. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t cry. She cried everything out during the 792 days of searching. 47 days at the consulate, 300 letters to the embassy, a sold apartment, debts.
All for this moment, for the sake of her daughter, who is sitting nearby, alive, broken, but alive. Mom, – Alina said when the journalist left. Yes, you sold the apartment. Natalia shrugged. These are just walls. Where will we live? Natalia smiled for the first time in 2 years, truly. We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.
This word is like an anchor, like a promise, like a home. In the evening, they sat on the balcony of a rented apartment in Muscat. The sun was setting in the Gulf of Oman. Not Persian. It was safe here. 23, – said Alina. That the scar on my back is 23. Natalia was silent. I thought it was months, one for each, but then I lost count. Alina turned to her mother.
Now I’m 24. I missed 2 birthdays. Christmas, New Year, your birthday. Alina, I missed everything, and I will never get these days back. Natalia took her hand, crooked fingers. in shaking palms. “But you have tomorrow,” – she said. “And the day after tomorrow, and next year.” Alina looked at the sunset.
847 days without sun. Now every day is sunny. “I want to go home,” she said. “To Odessa?” “Yes.” Natalia nodded. “Then we’ll go.” They flew out a week later. At Moscata Airport, Alina stopped at a newsstand. Her photo was on the cover of a magazine . The survival story of a Ukrainian model who was held captive for 847 days.
Next to it was a photo of the Al-Shams yacht and a line at the bottom. Interpol had put Faris Al-Mansour on the wanted list for human trafficking. Alina bought the magazine not for herself, but for those who would read it. For the girl from Kharkiv who wrote in a new account. For everyone who would see the promise of $15,000 in 2 weeks and think about it. Maybe one would read it, maybe one wouldn’t get into the black Mercedes, maybe one would stay home.
This Enough. The plane took off at Aman. Alina looked out the window. Below, the Persian Gulf, blue, calm, holding secrets. How many are there? How many numbers are on the bottom? How many girls the fisherman didn’t find at 4:47 in the morning? She didn’t know, no one knew. But the waves knew. Waves always know.
Odessa greeted her with rain. Tairova, sixth floor, apartment 47. It was gone. Sold. But Alina stood at the entrance and looked at the windows. Here I dreamed of the Milan catwalks. Here I wrote the first message at 2:00 in the morning. Here it all began. “Let’s go,” said Natalia. “We need to go somewhere else.” Another place – a rented room from my mother’s friend.
Cramped, poor, but home. That night, Alina woke up from a nightmare. A locked door, bare metal, Faris’s voice. You will go very far. She sat up in bed. Her heart was pounding, her hands were shaking like my mother’s. I’m in Odessa, I’m free. I’m Alina Kovalenko. I’m 24 years old. I have a mother. I survived.
She repeated this until her heart calmed down. Then she got up and went to the window. Odessa was sleeping. Somewhere far away is the Persian Gulf. Somewhere far away is a yacht with a new name. Somewhere far away, a girl is reading a message. Hello, we’ve seen your portfolio. Alina couldn’t save everyone, but she could speak, tell, warn.
This is my job now. No catwalks, no cameras, really. In the morning, she opened her laptop, created a page, wrote the first post. My name is Alina Kovalenko, I’m 24 years old. 2 years ago, I received a message on Instagram offering me a modeling job in Dubai. I agreed. This is the story of what happened next. If you received a similar message, read to the end. She wrote until the evening.
Everything, every day of 847. Every scar, every number. When she finished, She pressed publish and closed the laptop. Outside the window, the sun was setting over Odessa, not over the Persian Gulf, but over the house. Alina looked at the sunset. 23 scars on her back, three crooked fingers, gray strands at 24 , eyes that had seen the bottom.
But she was here. She was breathing. She remembered. Leyla said, “Survive!” I survived. Now I’m living. Natalya came in with tea. I wrote. Yes, they’ll read it. Alina shrugged. Maybe one girl? That’s enough. The mother sat down next to her, two women. One with an illness that wouldn’t go away, the other with scars that wouldn’t go away.
Both alive, both together. “You know,” Natalya said, “I’m proud of you.” Alina turned around. For what? For being here. For speaking up, for not giving up. Didn’t give up. 847 days, 23 burns, three fractures, one chip under skin, and she didn’t give up. Thank you, Mom. For what? For searching. Natalya smiled. I would search forever. Forever.
This word is like an anchor, like a promise, like love. The waves of the Persian Gulf continued to keep secrets, but one secret surfaced. One number became a name. One girl came home and told.
