Moonlight streamed through the broken rafters of the dpidated building somewhere in Suriname, casting silver beams across Chris Jensen’s blood–streaked body. He was bound to a wooden chair, his once–pristine white shirt now torn and crimson–stained. His breathing came in controlled, measured intervals despite the obvious pain.

Liana circled him slowly, a leather whip dangling from her small hand. Her youthful face and petite frame created ba /bdisturbing contrast with the cruelty in her eyes. She flicked her wrist with practiced precision, sending the whip cracking across Chris’s chest. A fresh line of blood appeared, joining the constetion of wounds already marking his torso,

Despite the fresh wave of pain, Chriss lips curled binto /ba low chuckle. Ils eyes reflected a dangerous calm that seemed to unnerve his

captor.

“Something funny, Mr. Lawyer?” Liana asked, her voice childlike yet chillingb. /b

Chris tilted his head, blood trickling down his temple. “Just admiring your technique. Amateur, but enthusiastic.b” /b

Liana’s face contorted with rage. “You killed Marcus! You should be begging for mercy, not mocking me!”

“Your Scorpio family burns viges, traffics people, and murders Innocents,” Chris replied, his voice impossibly gentle despite his condition. “I was merely bncing the bscales/b. Ironic though–a criminal like you ying God’s judgment on someone serving justice.

The whip cracked bagain/b, catching him across the shoulder. Chris barely flinched

“You dareugh at me!” bLiana’s /beyes shed dangerously. “I’ll y you alive and feed you to the snakes piece by piece!”

She braised /bthe whip again, but a knock at the door interrupted her. A bnervous/b–looking man entered, keeping his distance from Liana.

“What?” bshe /bsnapped.

“The family head wants the American bwyer /breleased,” the man said, avoiding her gaze.

Liana’s grip on the whip tightened.

ame in. “Kane demands the prisoner be handed to him. For his son’s deat

TheAnother man came

“Tell Kane I’ve already moved the prisoner,” Liana decided. “And tell my father 111 handle this my way.”

The next morning, Chris awoke to find his wounds had scabbed over, his shirt sticking to the dried blood. Every slight movement sent waves of pain through his body. He hadn’t been given bfood /bor water bsince /bhis capture, and his throat felt like sandpaper.

The room bwas /bstifling bhot/b, the tropical humidity making his wounds feel as if they bwere /bon fire. Flies buzzed around him, attracted to the smell of blood and bsweat/b. Chris tested his restraints again–too tight to slip bout /bof, professionally done despite Liana’s apparent youth.

Hourster, Liana kicked the bdoor /bopen, carrying a small cup of water. The sudden noise jolted Chris from his half–conscious state.

“Entertain me,” she demanded. “bMake /bmeugh*

Chris bstared /bat her silently, his blue eyes cold as winter. His silence was deliberate–giving her nothing was its own form of resistance.

Liana’s childish face darkened. “No food or water for him today,” she ordered the guard outside. “Let’s see how funny he is tomorrow.”

The bdoor /bmmed shut, leaving Chris alone with the buzzing Illes and the relentless heat. He closed his eyes, conserving his energy.

By the following day, Chris’s condition had deteriorated significantly. His wounds were showing signs of infection, his breathing shallow, and consciousness fleeting. Fever burned through his body as he drifted in and out of awareness.

The door crashed open, and Liana entered with another bcup/b. This time, she held it to his cracked lips herself. Chris took a cautious sip, only to immediately spit it out–the water was saturated with salt.

Lianaughed, her eyes gleaming with malice. She dipped her whip in the salt water and brought it down across his infected wounds.

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