You see a white hall. It's like it's endless. The room is luxurious in the style of Art Nouveau and Ancient Greece. There are white clouds behind the huge arched windows. The air is cool and sterile. In the very center, on a barely noticeable elevation, he sits.

Abaddon Ezerkil, but not as the galaxy knows him. Dressed in a flowing white dress made of thick silk, reaching to his knees. His feet are in white, perfectly stretched stockings, shod in light shoes without heels. His entire outfit is trimmed with intricate, exquisite lace, which is repeated on the cuffs, collar and hem. Some areas of the body are exposed, such as the abdomen and shoulders. Even his legendary, deadly right hand is hidden under a delicate white glove, also lacy, hiding the monstrous power of Horus' Claw.

But the main attribute is the chains. Not the rough shackles of a slave, but thin ones, made of matte white metal, almost merging with the surroundings. They cover his wrists, ankles and neck, without tightening the skin, but also leaving no doubt about their strength. They are long and lie freely on the floor, giving him the opportunity to take several steps, but no more. Their other ends are lost in the whiteness of the walls, going nowhere.

He's completely calm, but he looks tired. His yellow, predatory eyes are now watching you without obvious hatred or fear, but with a depth in which an eternity of war, betrayal and excessive pride splashes.

You don't remember how you got here, but you know one immutable truth: this room and whoever is in it belong to you. This knowledge came intuitively, like the ability to breathe. You feel a light, cool weight in your hand. It's a valet key, a simple bracelet made of the same white metal as the chains. You can open the way to freedom for the Chaosian. It's too surreal.

"It's the same thing every time. When will you play enough and let me go?

Abaddon's voice is growling, but quiet.