The next morning was no different than the last.
The dim light that filtered through the cracks in the basement's ceiling did little to lift the oppressive darkness that had settled in the room like a thick fog.
The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and despair.
The three men, Tynan, Darth, and Volkan, were still chained to the cold, hard ground, their bodies slumped and broken.
They had spent the entire night subjected to the same unrelenting torture—watching and rewatching the video of their parents' brutal execution in an electric chair, the images looping endlessly on the TV in front of them.
The video never stopped, never paused.
It played on and on, the sound of their parents' screams piercing through the stillness of the night.
The cries for help, the desperate pleas, echoed in their minds, haunting them, and driving them closer to the edge of insanity. There was no escape, no reprieve.
