Rong Ye awoke with soreness in his wrists and ankles. The ropes binding him weren't thick, but they held tight enough to restrict his movement to just a few centimeters.
He sat on the floor of a narrow, weathered wooden shed, where the scent of dampness lingered in every corner. Rusty tools hung on the walls or rested on dusty shelves. The air was cold and thick, as if it hadn't circulated for years.
The gag scraped the corner of his mouth. He breathed through his nose, forcing himself to stay calm, resisting the rising panic. He knew panicking wouldn't help. He knew too many things, but none of them would help now.
Then the door opened.
A hooded figure stepped inside, carrying a wooden bowl. Though his face was hidden, Rong Ye caught the calm, dark brown eyes, as if this were just another routine.
