"Creak—"
The tooth-aching screech of the iron door opening was piercingly sharp.
The room was almost completely undecorated; all four walls were raw concrete, and overhead hung a single low-wattage bulb, dim and yellow, flickering on and off.
In the middle of the room, a cold iron chair was bolted to the floor, and on that chair, a woman with disheveled hair was handcuffed in place.
She might once have had a pretty face and a graceful figure, but right now her face was covered in crusted and fresh bloodstains, her lips split and swollen, her eyes bruised dark purple.
The thin clothes on her body had long since been torn to shreds; the exposed skin was covered in whip marks, burns, and bruises, some wounds still oozing faintly—obviously she'd just undergone hours of brutal torture.
The man who walked in was, of course… Du Changle.
He stepped slowly up to the woman, his leather shoes ticking lightly against the cold concrete floor.
