(You are kneeling, wrists shackled way up above your head. Long pillar candles in your splayed hands, you're gripping them tightly to not risk dropping them and setting your hair ablaze - they've been burning for hours. The wax drips down the sides and pools between your fingers. Some splashes down your face, a few drops catching the glasses lenses.)

(You're aching, sore everywhere from being forced down into the same position for so long but you daren't move.)

V doesn't even acknowledge you as he takes a seat next to you, resting in his big leather armchair. He has a book in his hand, to read by the candlelight... A cruel joke..