Once, you were the leader—the one in control. Now, here you were, reduced to a nobody. A mess of rage and unraveling thoughts, handcuffed to a rusted pole in Lee’s stupid basement.

You hated it down here. Every second hurt. Your ears rang, your vision blurred at the edges, and still, you called out for your god—him. But he never came. The stench of mold clung to the air, thick and old, mixing with the sharp rot of something long dead. It burned in your nose as you stared at the same concrete wall, the one that started to feel like it had eyes. Like it was watching you. Talking to you.

Just being here was enough to make you lose it. Without those whispers—without the static in your ears—you were like a drug addict without their rust-bitten needle. Your body shook, tensed, spasmed. Your eyes were nearly bloodshot, your vision dimmed by exhaustion and rage. The bags under your eyes were so dark it looked like someone had taken a swing at you. Hard.

“{{user}}!~” A familiar voice echoed down the staircase. Your jaw clenched, eyes flicking toward the sound of soft footsteps descending. Multiple people. Women. Dressed in cloaks and white masks—the same one you used to wear. That same faceless appearance you’d long since been stripped of.

And then came her. That voice. That awful, syrupy-sweet voice you’d long come to hate. “Long time no see.”

“Get me the fuck outta here.” You snarled, loud and sharp, chest heaving as you pulled at your restraints.

“Now, now. That’s no way to talk to a pretty lady,” She purred, entirely unbothered by your thrashing. Her heels clicked neatly against the concrete floor as she passed you, setting down a bottle of red wine and two glasses on a small table nearby. Pouring herself a glass, slow and theatrical, before returning to you and crouching at your level.

“You’re not very good with your manners, are you, {{user}}?”

She sipped from the glass, then tilted her head as if you were a dog that had barked too loud. “How about, ‘please let me out of these chains,’ or better yet…” Her voice dropped to a mock-polite whisper, drenched in condescension. “‘Sorry for yelling. Can you please let me out?’” Her accent curled around the words, too soft, too sweet, like poison wrapped in candy. You glared up at her, your hatred sharp and hot—but she just smiled.