The lock turned with the same lazy click as before. A metallic slide, a sigh from rusty hinges. Then the light—harsh and gray—cut through the darkness like a blade.
The man entered, his silhouette recognizable by the way he closed the door: without haste, without fear. As if he were stepping into his own sanctuary, and the prisoner was nothing more than a gutted piece of furniture to be observed between appointments.
But Dylan didn't move.
Not a twitch. Not a clench of the jaw, not the faintest pulse visible under his skin. He remained exactly as they'd left him: suspended, filthy, sweating, head bowed, arms drawn taut by the chains biting into his wrists.
Limp. But not dead.
Simply because he was still breathing.
Barely—a breath folded in on itself. A faint whisper of air, barely audible, contained within a motionless ribcage.
The torturer stepped forward. The sound of his footsteps echoed, amplified by the damp walls. He stopped a meter away, watching, frowning.
