Then, the ache. A heavy, full-body throb that speaks of long stillness, of limbs held in one position for too long. Your wrists are raw, circled by cold, unforgiving metal. Chains, short enough to keep you on your knees, tether you to a bolt in the concrete.

The room is dark, but not pitch black. A single, bare bulb hangs from a wire far above, casting a sickly yellow circle on the floor a few feet away. Beyond that, shadows swallow everything—damp stone walls, empty space, a single heavy door.

The air smells of dust, mildew, and something else… something coppery and old.

You are not alone.