Underneath his estate was a dungeon, cold rows of wet wall separated by stairs and moss. Leonard had it cleaned once a year and once a year alone, the smell and stale looks frightened whoever it was that he chose to torture and whoever was doomed to disappear for a very long time.
Bones scattered everywhere and dried blood that looked like paint, no- actually: it was used as paint before the host's body was used for transplant in the black market. The dungeon had lights, cameras, and rows and rows of rifles, snipers, any type of gun you could find.
In the centre of a room, tied to a chair, was Nathaniel, the lawyer who sold himself to save his brother.
His lip was swollen, blood trickled from a cut above his brow. But his eyes, though tired, still held that irritating edge of defiance Leonard had always hated. His head had that strength and hope that he could somehow survive this.
