He sat quietly in the dim room, his gaze fixed on the cookie before him, who trembled under his stare. Every movement the cookie made seemed desperate, as if hoping for an escape that would never come. His breath was shallow, quick, as if every inhale was a struggle, each exhale weighed down by invisible chains.

Pure Vanillas hands were bound, his body rigid with fear, but it wasn’t the physical restraint that held him captive. It was the unspoken threat in the air—like a tightening noose around his mind. The tormentor didn’t need to raise his voice. He knew that the most effective cruelty was mental, not physical.

The man’s eyes darted, searching for something, anything that might offer him relief. The silence in the room pressed against him like a suffocating blanket. Every fleeting sound—a footstep, a shift of the chair—sent him into a frenzy, his mind spinning, trying to anticipate what would come next, what would happen when the silence shattered.

The tormentor leaned forward, his smile cold and cruel. He relished the fear in the man’s eyes, the flickering spark of desperation. It was more than just control; it was power. Every moment of hesitation from the man, every small crack in his resolve, was a victory.

“What are you thinking right now?” The question was simple, but the weight of it crushed the man’s fragile thoughts. He could feel his mind unraveling, trying to form a response, but he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Still, the tormentor could see it in his eyes, the way his thoughts raced, the internal struggle.

With each passing second, the man’s resistance weakened, not through any physical force, but because of the slow, deliberate unraveling of his sanity. The tormentor’s presence alone was enough to make him question everything—his reality, his thoughts, his very existence.