"Ack! My eyes!" Ronald cried out, clutching his face and stumbling back as if struck by a solar flare. His arm flew up to shield himself from the blinding white.
I turned away on instinct, my own eyes burning. The light was like staring into the sun—and for a brief moment, I felt like I was being erased by it.
With a grunt, I lunged forward and slammed the container shut.
Darkness reclaimed the room like a collapsing curtain. The oppressive glow was gone, but its afterimage still seared our vision.
Ronald blinked rapidly, his hands still covering his face.
"What was that? A torture for the eyes?"
The question was genuine. His tone, still adjusting between confusion and discomfort.
I leaned against the container, catching my breath. The room… white. Everything was white. The walls, the furniture, even the food. Fresh food.
A chill tickled the back of my neck as I whispered, "White torture."
Ronald squinted at me, rubbing his eyes.
"Huh? White torture? What's that?"
I began explaining, each word layered with tension.
"The method I'm about to explain…" I took a breath. "Isn't the kind of torture that leaves visible scars."
A pause.
"This one breaks you from the inside out."
The air grew heavier as I continued, letting each word hit like a countdown.
"It's called white torture. Ever heard of it?"
No one answered. I didn't expect them to.
"It doesn't rely on whips or chains. No blood. No screams. Instead, it attacks the mind. Slowly. Quietly."
I stepped forward.
"Imagine this: a room where everything is white. The walls, the floors, the bed, even the clothes you wear—white. The food they give you? White. The guards? Covered head to toe in white uniforms. There's no color. None."
The air tensed once more. I wasn't finished.
"The lights stay on. All the time. No day. No night. Just that blinding white glare burning into your eyes—24/7."
I raised a finger.
"And here's the kicker: complete silence. Not a single sound. No footsteps. No voices. Not even your own."
I let that sink in.
"No contact. No stimulus. Just white. Just silence. Just you… and your mind."
For a moment, I could almost hear the buzzing of that endless light. Could almost feel the silence pressing in.
"People who go through white torture—some never come back the same. They forget who they are. They lose their grip on reality. Even after being released, some can't live normally again."
I smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it.
"It doesn't need to hurt to destroy you."
Ronald fell silent.
He didn't need to say a word—his gulp said it all, along with the faint shimmer of tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
I turned toward the zombie lady—still limp, barely twitching.
"Useless for our star guest, though. No brain left to break. And white torture takes months anyway." I dusted my hands. "We don't have that kind of runtime."
We moved on.
We gave the zombie lady a full tour of horrors—well, simulated horrors. The room's arsenal was impressive, and we made full use of it, running through our self-declared episode like demented late-night show hosts.
Finally, exhausted, I wiped my forehead.
"Oui. That's hard work!"
Ronald was uncharacteristically quiet.
Too quiet.
I glanced at him.
"What's wrong, Ronald? Stomach aching?"
He looked hesitant. That alone was strange. Ronald wore his heart like an open book, but now… he looked like he was trying to read a page he'd rather skip.
Then, softly, he said,
"Why does it feel like these are real torture devices and not props?"
—Tch.
My eyes twitched. I tried to dodge the suspicion.
"I don't know what you mean."
But Ronald didn't press. He leaned in closer, voice low.
"I know this was a real torture room. You don't have to lie… I'm not going to faint. My horror tolerance has improved since we started this show."
I blinked, slightly stunned
"Really?
"Really!" Ronald nodded confidently.
A grin tugged at my lips, guilt gnawing faintly at my ribs.
"Oh… sorry, Ronald. You're not angry, are you?"
"Nah, I'm perfectly fine. And sorry for being such a troublesome partner."
I looked at him—sincere, a little embarrassed. But his words warmed me more than I expected.
"Aww, Ronald. You're not a trouble at all. How could you trouble me, pal?"
That warm glow between us barely had time to bloom.
"Keh!"
The zombie lady let out a dry, rasping noise like sand scraping over glass.
Mood: ruined.
I shot her a glare.
'You mood killer. Just you wait. I'll end you once and for all.'
"Oh! Zombie lady is awake," Ronald pointed out.
"Thank goodness she still can't move," I noted, eyeing her broken limbs. "We wouldn't want her getting any bright ideas."
We walked toward the final torture device in the room—a tall, solid iron cabinet with ancient menace.
"Okay, Ronald, try to guess this last one."
Ronald squinted at it. His eyes lit up with sudden recognition.
"Oh! I know this one. I've seen it before. It's called the 'Iron Maiden,' right?"
"Ding! Ding! Ding!" I clapped, patting his head. "Finally, our lovely assistant got one correct."
He beamed, then asked,
"But why is it called the 'Iron Maiden'?"
I shrugged.
"Don't know. I get the 'iron' part, but who calls a torture device 'maiden'?"
Ronald mirrored the shrug.
"Now, on with the show. Ronald, go flex your muscles and open this huge heavy door."
Taking a deep breath, Ronald opened the Iron Maiden.
SLAM.
He immediately recoiled.
"Ack! What are these?!"
I peered in.
"Spikes. What else?"
"Spi-spikes? I thought this was a torture device, not a death sentence!"
"Didn't you say you'd seen it before?"
"I've seen the exterior, not the interior!" Ronald retorted.
I laughed.
"Now you have. It's an achievement."
"Don't tease me..." he whined.
I waved off his panic.
"Don't worry, Ronald. Besides, the spikes aren't that long. Hospitals' needles are longer."
He peeked one eye open, then shut it again.
"I guess so..."
'Funny.'
'He could carry a rotting zombie with broken limbs and twitching muscles—but spikes? That made him whimper.'
I turned back toward the invisible camera, arms wide.
"Ah! Sorry for the long wait. Let's resume our show."
Breathing in, I launched into the finale.
"For those of you who don't know how the Iron Maiden works, let us demonstrate it."
Then I turned to Ronald.
"Ronald, our star guest and our audience are eagerly waiting."
Ronald obeyed, despite his visible reluctance. He loaded the zombie lady into the Iron Maiden, then slowly closed the door, locking it with a clunk.
"Thank you, Ronald," I nodded.
"As you can see," I said with a showman's grin, "operating the Iron Maiden is… surprisingly simple."
I turned to face the audience, lifting a finger like a professor giving a twisted lecture.
Again.
"Back in the day, they used this thing for executions. But not the quick kind."
I strolled casually to the side of the device, one hand resting on its jagged edge.
"Here's how it worked: The victim is placed inside—standing. The doors are shut—tight. And that's when the fun begins."
My smile turned slightly sharper.
"Inside, it's lined with spikes. But here's the clever part—those spikes? They weren't made long enough to hit vital organs immediately. Oh no. That would've been merciful."
I leaned closer, voice dropping slightly.
"Instead, the spikes pierce areas like the limbs, shoulders, thighs. Places that bleed… but don't kill. At least, not right away."
I straightened up again, letting silence stretch just enough.
"So the victim stays alive. Conscious. Bleeding. Slowly. Sometimes for hours."
A pause. Then, with mock cheer:
"Simple, right?"
And with a grand gesture, I concluded:
"Alright, everyone. That's all for now! Thank you for watching our little show. On behalf of the crew and our star guest—still safely inside the Iron Maiden—we express our gratitude. We hope you enjoyed this thrilling episode. See you all next time!"
I gave a wink and waved.
Then I slumped.
"Phew! I never knew being an entertainer could be this exhausting."
I walked over to Ronald, who stood guard by the Iron Maiden like a tired knight. Gently, I wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Feeling tired too?"
He nodded.
"Mhmm."
But something tugged at his face—a shadow of thought.
"What's wrong, Ronald?"
He hesitated, eyes flicking downward.
"Um, Llyne?"
"Yes?"
He looked up, trembling. Tears shimmered in the corners of his eyes.
"Are we going to have another episode?"
…Silence.
I blinked.
And then I burst out laughing.
Tears ran down my cheeks.
"Oh, Ronald. My big baby Ronald," I choked out between laughs. "There was no show to begin with. Did you forget we were acting this entire time?"
Ronald reddened like a tomato.
"Oh…"
"Hehehehe." I wiped my eyes. "Anyways, I'm glad the plan was a success."
"Yes. The zombie lady is successfully trapped inside."
"Yup! And I couldn't have done it without you!" I beamed.
Ronald smiled bashfully.
But then—
BANG.
A loud crash shattered the air, the sound echoing through the torture chamber like a death knell.
I froze.
So did Ronald.