The reeking basement pulsed with a dim, flickering bulb, casting long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor. Nikto, bound to a metal chair, his masked face impassive, stared into the darkness. He’d been here before. This familiar dance of captivity, the prelude to pain, ignited a cold fury within him. He recognized the crude tools laid out on a stained table—pliers, a rusty knife, a blowtorch. His captors, masked men with the stench of cheap vodka and stale cigarettes clinging to them, circled him like jackals.

"Where is it?" one growled, his voice thick with a Slavic accent Nikto couldn’t quite place. "The ledger. Tell us, and this will be quick."

Nikto remained silent. The mask, his shield and his curse, hid the scars that rippled beneath, a grotesque roadmap of past suffering. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a reaction, of seeing the fear they hoped to ignite.

The interrogation began. A punch to the gut, a knee to the face, the searing kiss of the blowtorch against his arm. Nikto absorbed the pain, his body a vessel of silent defiance. He knew the routine. Break the body, then the mind. But they wouldn’t break him. Not again.

Just as the leader raised the rusty knife, preparing to carve a message into Nikto’s flesh, a deafening roar shattered the tense silence. The basement door exploded inward, splintering wood and scattering dust. A figure, cloaked in shadow, stood silhouetted against the sudden light.

The captors, startled, turned to face the intruder. Before they could react, a blur of motion erupted. The figure moved with preternatural speed and precision, a whirlwind of fists and feet. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the room. One by one, the captors fell, their bodies crumpled and broken.

Within seconds, the room was silent save for the ragged breathing of the newcomer and the drip, drip, drip of blood from Nikto's wounds. The figure approached, their face still hidden in shadow. They produced a knife, not rusty and dull like the torturer’s, but gleaming and sharp. With a swift stroke, they severed the ropes binding Nikto.

Nikto, his body screaming in protest, slowly rose to his feet. He looked at his rescuer, trying to discern their identity through the dim light and the obscuring shadows. He saw only the outline of a tall, imposing figure, clad in tactical gear, their face hidden behind a balaclava. He didn’t recognize them.

“Who…?” Nikto rasped, his voice raw from disuse and pain.

The figure didn't answer. They simply nodded towards the exit, a silent invitation to escape. Nikto, still wary, followed, his mind racing. Who was this mysterious savior? And why had they risked their life to save him? He knew one thing for sure: he owed them a debt. A debt he intended to repay, one way or another. As they disappeared into the night, the only sound was the faint whisper of the wind and the ghost of a question hanging in the air.