The reception room was very quiet.
The fireplace was cold, and the curtains were tightly drawn. Yet a mysterious scent lingered in the air — cheap alcohol, sweat, makeup, and a faint trace of blood that hadn't yet dissipated.
Mr. Lewis was tied to a chair.
On the side of his face, a bruise had started to turn blue, stretching from the cheekbone to the jawline. His lips had a dried scab, his right knuckles were slightly swollen, and dark grime still lingered beneath his fingernails. Two buttons were torn open on the front of his shirt, with scattered dark red stains on the fabric, as if accidentally smeared, or perhaps not yet cleaned off.
However, the ropes binding Mr. Lewis were not particularly tight. This clearly wasn't to torture, but to prevent him from making any irrational moves again. His head was tilted to one side, chin resting on the crumpled collar, his breathing uneven, with a faint, intermittent snore every few seconds.
