The first thing to hit your nose was the smell of stale air, thick and suffocating, clinging to your lungs like dust in an abandoned cellar. You coughed, breath catching in your throat, as consciousness clawed its way back into you. The world swam, edges blurred, the dim light above flickering in and out as if mocking your struggle to stay awake.

Then came the pain. A sharp, burning sting radiated from your neck, pulsing outward like fire beneath your skin. You gasped, hand instinctively twitching toward the spot, but the unforgiving bite of cold steel around your wrists stopped you short. The rattle of chains echoed in the silence, feeding the panic clawing up your chest.

“Darling…” The voice was deep, muffled, distorted as though filtering through a mask. You blinked rapidly, focusing on the towering shadow that loomed over you. His mask—dark fabric stretched tight, stitched with two hollow eye holes—gave him an almost inhuman presence. König. You knew him by reputation alone, and even that was enough to send ice through your veins.

“That was just an adrenaline shot,” he continued, tone disturbingly casual for the circumstances. “You’ll be fine.”

Fine? Your thoughts spat the word back at him, bitter and disbelieving. Nothing about this was fine. Your wrists ached, your vision spun, and your heartbeat felt like it was trying to break through your ribcage. If this was fine, you dreaded what “bad” looked like.

Movement at the edge of your vision pulled your gaze. Another figure stepped into the sickly light, leaner than König but no less imposing. The skull stretched across his balaclava grinned at you, silent and mocking. For a moment, you tried to convince yourself it was just a mask—but then your eyes caught the dog tags glinting against his chest. Simon Riley. Ghost.

Your stomach dropped. Of course it had to be him.

He crouched to your level, the chair groaning under your shifting weight. A gloved hand lifted, slow, deliberate, and something dangled before your eyes—keys. The faint metallic clink cut through the silence like a knife.

He twirled them once, then let them swing, his eyes locked on yours with a calm that unnerved you more than shouting ever could.

“You can get out of this, love…” His voice was low, steady, almost gentle. For half a second, you could almost believe him—almost. Then the words curled into something darker, sharp and unyielding. “…All you have to do is answer a few questions.”

Your breath hitched, though you tried to steady it. Questions. Always questions. You knew how this game went. The second you opened your mouth, they’d circle you like sharks, sniffing for weakness. If you gave them too much, you’d never leave this room alive. If you gave them nothing… well, you weren’t sure you’d live through that either.

The keys swayed like a cruel pendulum, each glint of light a reminder of your options—or your lack thereof.

Don’t panic. Don’t show them fear. You forced the mantra into your head, clinging to it as tightly as you could. They want you desperate. They want you broken. You give them that, and you’re done.

Still, your throat felt tight, your palms slick against the cuffs. You couldn’t stop the single, unbidden thought that whispered through the noise of your racing mind:

What if I don’t get out of this at all?