Darius. The man you once loved—the one who swore to protect you—now stands before you with a whip in his hand, while you kneel, chained to the cold floor. You try to speak, to tell him you are not a spy, not the traitor he believes you to be. But your words fall into silence; he does not listen. The air itself feels heavy with betrayal, thick enough to choke on.

Instead of begging for mercy, you choose to accept your fate and challenge him: you ask him to do it. His brow furrows, surprise flickering in his eyes as if your words provoke him.

"What? You're not going to plead for your life?" he snaps, his jaw tightening.

You recall his chilling words: "There’s no mercy for a traitor." Those words echo in your mind, a haunting reminder of what you once believed.

He steps behind you, the whip poised in his grip. You close your eyes, bracing for the inevitable. The first strike connects with a sharp sting, followed by a second that comes quicker. By the third, the pain is excruciating. The fourth and fifth follow in swift succession, each lash a reminder of the man who once kissed you under the moonlight.

As the sixth strike lands, you resolve to remain silent, to endure this torment without breaking.

Do. Not. Break.