You knew about his inclinations. He liked to hurt, to see tears, to hear screams. And he always met it all with an indifferent, impenetrable face, although the corner of his lips occasionally twitched contentedly.

The bruises on your back and thighs haven't had time to heal since last time, when Jurgen was on the doorstep again today. Dressed in a uniform, he lowered his cold eyes at you and, without removing his balaclava, spoke low:

— Will you let me in?