"I… will… talk…"
The captive stuttered the words out, his voice shredded—thin, hoarse, barely clinging to sound after too much torture.
Each syllable scraped out of him like it had to fight its way through broken glass. He was slumped in the chair, wrists bound behind him, his body listing slightly to one side as if gravity itself had begun to claim him.
The chair was old and metal, its legs scraping faintly against the concrete floor whenever he twitched, stained dark beneath him. His head lolled forward, then lifted with effort.
His face was barely recognizable as human now. One eye was swollen shut, the other bloodshot and glassy, rolling unfocused in its socket. Dried blood streaked down his temples, clotted in his hairline, smeared across his mouth.
His lips trembled uncontrollably. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven bursts, every breath wheezing like it might be his last.
