When Viktor finally cracked his eyes open slow, heavy lids fluttering against the glare, he found himself stripped buck-naked on a rusted metal bed frame—thick, coarse ropes biting deep into his wrists and ankles at all four corners, yanking his body spread-eagle wide and immobile, muscles straining useless against the burn.
He parted his cracked lips to scream or beg, but nothing came out—just dry air rasping silent from his paralyzed throat.
A harsh surgical bulb dangled inches above his head, blazing white-hot merciless into his dilated pupils, forcing tears to well instant.
The air hung thick and rancid—putrid stench of old blood, piss, sweat, and rot clinging heavy like a fog, turning his stomach to churn even before full awareness hit.
"Don't bother wasting breath, Viktor—I've pumped you full of a special paralytic drug. Renders you speechless, limp as a corpse, but awake enough to feel everything," Hellen's voice sliced calm and cold from the shadows.
