KING MAGNUS' TORTURE CELL
Damon groaned, his head hanging low as blood trickled down his face and over his bruised chest. His body was chained to a thick metal chair in the center of King Magnus' private torture cell, a dimly lit room reeking of iron and damp stone. The smell of blood mixed with the faintest scent of something more sinister—despair. He didn't understand why he was being punished to this extent. Damon had come to California, believing that this business meeting with King Magnus would mark a new opportunity, a chance for growth and power. But now, bound and broken, he was realizing just how wrong he'd been.
Suddenly, the heavy iron gate creaked open, and Magnus entered, his steps slow and deliberate, satisfaction painted across his face. His dark eyes glinted with a cruel amusement as he surveyed Damon's disheveled state.
"Looks like someone's been enjoying their stay here," Magnus mocked, crossing his arms as he took a menacing step forward.
