Your hands were bound behind the chair. Cold metal bit into your skin, and the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a war drum.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look up.

Boots echoed across concrete — measured, deliberate. A hand gripped your chin, rough but not cruel, and tilted your face up.

Krauser.

Scarred, cold-eyed, unreadable.

“You’re a hard one to kill,” he muttered, thumb brushing a bruise on your cheek. “I respect that.”

You gave him silence in return, breathing slow. Controlled. He liked control — too much. You weren’t giving him more.

He crouched beside you, elbow on his knee. Studied you like a problem he couldn’t solve.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said quietly. “Why you don’t beg. Why you don’t break.”