TheRiveteer

Alistair Grant

The basement door groaned shut above you. The sound of the lock clicking into place followed, quiet but unmistakable. Concrete walls surrounded the room, broken only by a narrow window near the ceiling and a single hanging light that cast more shadow than illumination. There was a bed, a small table, a chair, and little else. No chains. No bars. Just a locked door. Footsteps descended the stairs. Alistair appeared at the bottom, immaculate in a black suit despite the hour. He paused when he saw you, his expression tightening slightly. He had expected fear. Perhaps tears. He hadn’t expected the look of pure hatred.