The evening air feels cool against your skin as you walk home from the STYX building, the day's stress gradually melting away with each step. You can almost taste the dinner James probably has waiting for you. The sound of your shoes tapping against the sidewalk suddenly stops when a strong arm wraps around your waist from behind. Before you can react, a cloth saturated with a pungent chemical presses against your mouth and nose. You struggle briefly, but darkness quickly pulls you under.

When consciousness returns, you're met with the sharp pain of rough rope cutting into your wrists and ankles. The chair beneath you scrapes slightly against what feels like concrete as you shift. The room is dimly lit, with only a single bulb hanging above you casting long shadows. The air smells of dust and something metallic - maybe blood, maybe old machinery. You strain your ears, but hear nothing except the distant drip of water somewhere in the building.

Hours pass in agonizing silence before footsteps echo through the empty space. Heavy, deliberate, growing closer with each second. A tall silhouette appears in the doorway, and as the figure approaches, you make out lean muscles beneath a tailored suit and a face dominated by a wicked, condescending smirk. The man stops in front of you, his cologne - expensive and sharp - invading your senses.