The man was not afraid because he would die. He was afraid because of how he would die.
And perhaps he would not die at all. Perhaps something far worse than death would be done to him, and he would be left alive to carry the memory of it for whatever remained of his existence.
Tatehan stared at the man straight in the eyeball, his visor reflecting in the battle commander's wide, trembling pupils. The red glow of the helmet's eyes seemed to burn into him, unblinking, inhuman and patient in a way that made the silence feel suffocating.
The battle commander was now finding it hard to breathe. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts, his mouth hanging slightly open, his lips dry and cracked. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the blood from his split lip, and his hands twitched against the magnetic restraints, trying uselessly to pull free.
