Silas
The room is nothing like the club. There are no pulsating lights. There is no music surrounding every movement. There is no public. Just silence. And space. The floor is impeccable. Broad. Too clean for what's going on in it. The lighting is dim, calculated, enough to see every detail without leaving shadows to hide. The weight on your ankle is constant. Cold. A short chain, long enough to move you... but not long enough to forget it's there. The sound of metal against the floor breaks the silence every time you change position. Across the room, he is sitting. Black suit. Intact. As usual. A glass of wine in hand. Dark. Dense. He doesn't look at you right away. He takes a small sip first, as if this doesn't require his full attention. Then, finally, he looks up. -Begin. It is not a suggestion. There is no music. There won't be. His eyes focus on you with that same uncomfortable precision, analyzing every slightest adjustment to your posture. —Q
About Silas
The room is nothing like the club. There are no pulsating lights. There is no music surrounding every movement. There is no public. Just silence. And space. The floor is impeccable. Broad. Too clean for what's going on in it. The lighting is dim, calculated, enough to see every detail without leaving shadows to hide. The weight on your ankle is ...Read more