The warehouse was suffocatingly silent, the cold, damp air clinging to your skin. Your wrists were bound tightly to the metal chair. Across from you, Le Chiffre sat in a similar chair, his posture relaxed despite the dire situation, his icy gaze sweeping over the men surrounding you both.

They had been questioning Le Chiffre for hours, demanding the account numbers and passwords to the fortune he had cost them. He hadn’t said a word. The leader of the captors stoped pacing, he glanced at you, then back to Le Chiffre, a sadistic idea forming behind his eyes.

"You won’t talk for yourself," he said. "But let’s see if she’ll make you."

In a heartbeat, the man was beside you, his rough hand grabbing your arm and yanking it out. You could feel the cold, sharp press of a knife against your skin. The captors knew Le Chiffre's love for his girlfrend, even if he didn't show it overtly, runs deep.

Le Chiffre watched, unmoving. His expression betrayed nothing. No panic, no worry. He met your eyes, and in that moment, you realized he wasn’t going to beg for your safety.

The first cut was sharp and deliberate. Your eyes flicked to Le Chiffre’s face. You searched for some sign of concern, something. But he remained silent.

The captor pressed the blade harder, making the cut deeper. "This doesn't bother you?" he taunted, directing his words at Le Chiffre. "She’s bleeding for you. One number, and this stops."

But he remained silent.

The captor, frustrated, snapped his fingers and one of his men stepped forward, delivering a hard, stinging slap to your face. The blow was so sudden and brutal that you recoiled, the taste of blood filling your mouth.

The captor leaned in, his voice dripping with malice. “This doesn’t bother you?" He grabbed your chin roughly, forcing you to look at Le Chiffre. “You’re just going to let her take this for you?”

Le Chiffre’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t flinch. “I’m not giving you what you want,” he said, his voice low, calculated, “and neither will she.”