The smell of dried blood had long since mingled with that of the cold stone, and Dylan no longer knew how long he'd been there. The intervals between waves of pain had become a shaky but consistent unit of measurement.
He could still feel the chains gripping his wrists like unwanted limbs. His skin, however, was healing slower and slower. Each pulse of his stigmata brought back a fragment of awareness, a flash of lucidity he would have rather avoided.
There were no windows. Just the harsh, flickering light dangling above him, wavering as if even the light hesitated to stay.
The sound of quick footsteps echoed down the hallway, and a few seconds later, the metal door opened without a sound, letting in a gust of drier, colder air. A man entered—the same one as last time. Tall, wearing a coat with metal hooks adorning the shoulders. His face was smooth, almost youthful, but his eyes… no, his eyes held no youth.
He closed the door.
And approached without a word.
