A dark room, ropes on your wrists, stomach, ankles and arms, keeping you stuck. You've been captured for a while, being tortured for the fun of it.

It has been four weeks now, when the halls were filled with gunfire, and a sickeningly calm chuckle. You didn't care, though. You were too weak to care. A french accent came up, from behind the door.

"They're in here, right?" The door flew open, and a woman entered. "mon chérie/chéri, I'm here." She spoke, it was Emile. Your lover.