Carl sat in the dark room, hands raised above his head, wrists biting under the cold iron of the shackles.
A tear slipped down his cheek, landing on his bare thigh—stinging like fire. His mouth was dry, cracked, each breath raspy and hollow.
Everything hurt.
The metal door creaked open. Carl didn't look.
"Fuck, Viv—! What did you do to this guy??"
A male voice pierced the silence. He crouched, eyes wide, trying to gauge Carl's state.
Vivian stepped forward, piercings glinting in the dim light, arms folded like a predator surveying its prey.
"My signature torture method," she said simply.
The man blinked, trying to process. Words failed him.
The woman advanced. Step by step, the floor groaned beneath her boots. Then— slam. Her boot hit the wall beside Carl, reverberating through the cramped room. Carl flinched instinctively, a sharp jolt against his restraints.
She smiled, cold.
"You're lucky you're cute, you know. If it weren't for that, you'd be dead already."
