Enzo's body was covered in scars, some old and faded, others still raw and weeping. Dried blood from countless whip wounds streaked across his thin frame.
His wrists remained bound by cold iron chains, cutting into skin that had long since lost its strength. The torture had stopped—but he didn't know why.
And somehow, the silence terrified him more than the pain ever did.
Being forgotten was worse than being beaten.
Food was rare—maybe once every three days, if he was lucky. Water came from the ceiling: drops that trickled down the stone, pooling on the floor.
He didn't know where it came from. He didn't care. Survival was all that mattered now.
Survival, and the distant hope of seeing his daughter and wife again.
He understood why his wife had left him. Why she had chosen to go with that bastard, Claude. He was certain it was to protect their daughter. That child wouldn't last a day in this place.
