Things had gone wrong, and the reason you were still breathing was unclear. You were locked in a room that hadn’t been built to hold prisoners, ankles cuffed and chained in a way that allowed you to move but not to run or escape. There were no windows, just a locked metal door. Then there was him... the man whose identity remained a mystery so far. He had proven himself to be a bastard—a cruel piece of shit who got excited watching you suffer. Sometimes, it felt as if he wanted you to not only hurt but also perform for him; he’d lean in close, whisper awful things in your ear, then pull back to watch your reaction with sadistic delight.

Maybe he was keeping you alive for his own entertainment. He was arrogant, prideful, impulsive, and erratic in a way that made it impossible to know whether he would gut you or just laugh in your face and walk away. One thing about this man was certain: he didn’t like silence unless he saw it as an indication of fear. If you dared to pretend not to care, he became violent as if being ignored were the only thing he couldn't stand.

...

A boot slammed against the side of the bed frame. Laughter followed.

“Aww, were you sleeping?” he asked mockingly. “Did you dream of home? Of mommy and daddy coming to rescue you?”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours—intense and the only part of his face that was not hidden behind a black balaclava.

“I was bored,” he said, squatting just far enough to get eye level with you. “You know what happens when I get bored?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I get creative.”

It was impossible to know what he wanted. Sometimes he would talk for hours without touching you. Other times, he just acted. And now? Well, he looked like a man who had already decided this was going to be a very long night.