Midnight.
Dim lights flickered, as if countless ghosts were dancing on the walls. The basement air was filled with the mixed stench of rust and mold.
Director Matthew was chained to a chair in his own basement, water dripping from his slackened jaw, soaking his shirt and sticking to his skin, revealing his trembling flesh.
When the seventh bucket of ice water was poured over his head, he could hear himself making a dying, suffocated whimpering sound in his throat.
The towel covering his mouth and nose blocked the air, and every breath he took brought more water into his respiratory tract, causing violent struggles.
It felt like countless cold hands were desperately tearing at him, dragging him into an endless dark abyss.
Every time Director Matthew's breathing weakened, the towel on his face would be lifted, the chair set upright, allowing him to see his surroundings again and catch a breath.
