The chamber was cold—unnaturally so, given that it resided deep in the fiery heart of the Netherrealm. Shadows flickered against the stone walls, cast by torches that burned with an eerie, sickly green flame. The air was thick with the scent of blood and despair, mingling with the occasional crackle of electricity that hummed from the chains bolted to the walls.

In the center of the room, a figure hung limply, wrists bound by cruel, spiked manacles that bit into their flesh. Their robes were once pristine, a symbol of their unwavering faith in the dark god they had served, but now they were tattered and stained—blood, dirt, and sweat all blending into a miserable tapestry of suffering.

The clatter of footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Shinnok.

The Fallen Elder God moved with an eerie grace, His face was inscrutable, cold and detached, but there was a glint in his eyes, something darkly amused.

Shinnok tilted his head, feigning concern. “No words for me? After all we’ve shared?” He crouched, now eye-level with his prisoner. There was a cruel mockery in the way he observed the broken individual before him. "You prayed to me once. Do you remember? You called my name with such conviction, pledging your life, your soul, your very blood to my cause."