Black Tower – Sublevel 3
The room was dark, cold, and cruel and silent except for the wet sound of leather striking flesh.
Chains clinked softly as the man hung by his wrists, his feet barely touching the ground. The air smelled of iron and burnt flesh. Torture tools; pliers, blades, metal rods, were scattered across the table like instruments in a surgeon's theatre.
Grigor's arm rose and fell with mechanical consistency, each swing of the belt measured, practiced. The atmosphere was thick humid with sweat, blood, and something metallic that settled at the back of the throat. The man strapped to the suspended rig had long since stopped struggling. His skin was blistered, bruises covered every inch of his skin, charred in some places. Some wounds were still fresh. Some were old enough to scab.
His breath came in wet, uneven gasps through the gag.
