The chamber was suffocatingly dark, its stone walls slick with damp and the stench of rot. A single torch flickered weakly in the corner, casting jagged shadows that seemed to mock the man at its center. Theron, once the brilliant and feared scientist, now knelt in chains.
Iron shackles bit deep into his wrists and ankles, the skin raw and blistered from days of restraint. His lab coat was gone, replaced by rags soaked in blood and grime. His spiked orange hair hung limp, matted with sweat, dirt, and dried blood. His face—once sharp with arrogance—was swollen, bruised, and streaked with cuts. His lips trembled, cracked from thirst, his breath shallow and uneven.
He had been tortured. Badly.
