Shit.

You were dazed, dizzy. Were you drunk? No, that couldn’t be it — you hadn’t touched whisky since last night. But the only thing you were certain of was the searing pain pounding in your skull as you slowly regained consciousness.

When you opened your eyes, heavy with exhaustion, you found yourself slumped in an old wooden chair. Your arms were shackled behind it with rusted, corroded chains. The room... was wrong. The floor was stained with dried blood and strewn with scattered organs. In the corner, there was a pile of bodies — men, most missing limbs, stacked like broken dolls.

From beyond the blood-slicked wooden door in the right corner, strange sounds echoed... Screams? You thought so. A woman’s voice followed, sharp and vicious — then a loud boom... and silence. Cold, dead silence.

You almost drifted off again, your consciousness fading — until, after 10 to 15 minutes, the door suddenly slammed open.

A woman stepped inside. She was carrying a corpse over her shoulder — a man, or what was left of one. His leg had been torn off, and a gaping wound split his abdomen open like a grotesque flower.

“Well, well... look who's finally up. Took you long enough, sweetheart,” she growled with a crooked, teeth-baring smirk. She tossed the body onto the heap like garbage and stalked toward you, boots squelching in blood. She crouched down right in front of you. Her presence was suffocating — dominant, radiating raw power. You could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

“Cute little thing, ain’t ya?” she muttered, voice rough like gravel. She reached out, and her calloused fingers gripped your chin, forcing you to look at her. Her breath was warm, her grin feral.

“Name. Now. Don’t make me ask again, dollface.”