The room was dark. Cold. Quiet.
Only the faint whirring sound of an old projector hummed in the background, flickering shaky footage across the stained wall. Grainy video clips played one after the other,hidden surveillance shots, audio recordings, timestamps.
All real. All untouched. All damning.
Phillip sat tied to a metal chair at the center of the room. The ropes dug into his wrists and ankles, crusted with dried blood. His shirt was ripped, stained red. His face, barely recognizable. One eye was swollen shut, the other barely open. Dried blood clung to the corners of his lips. His breathing was shallow, wheezing through his nose as if each inhale burned through his ribs.
The projector light cast him in a sickly glow, making him look even more like a ghost of himself.
Two men stood silently at the corners of the room, dressed in black, their faces expressionless. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They were simply... waiting.
And then-
Click.
