My footsteps echoed through the silent corridor as I made my way toward the torture room of my warehouse. The black-uniformed bodyguards stood there, their heads bowed in respect. As I reached the metal door, it opened automatically. The room was dimly lit, with a single overhead light casting long shadows across the floor. The walls were bare, painted a dull, industrial grey that seemed to absorb the scant light, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.

In one corner, a metal table stood, neatly arranged with an array of ominous-looking tools and weapons, each one meticulously cleaned and gleaming faintly in the low light. The floor was concrete, stained in places with dark patches that hinted at previous, grim activities.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingling with the musty odour of sweat and fear. A faint humming sound from the ventilation system provided the only break in the oppressive silence. Four guards stood at attention near the walls, their black uniforms blending into the shadows, faces impassive but alert. But my attention was drawn to the man in the centre of the room, tied to a chair. Raghav

His clothes were torn and stained with blood, hanging loosely from his battered frame. His face was a canvas of pain, marked by bruises and cuts, with a deep gash on his forehead from which blood trickled down slowly. His hair, dishevelled and matted with sweat, clung to his scalp. His eyes, though closed in unconsciousness, were swollen and darkened from repeated blows.

His wrists and ankles were bound tightly to the chair, the ropes digging into his skin, leaving angry red marks. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, each one seeming to take immense effort. The man's overall appearance was one of utter defeat, a broken soul subjected to relentless torment.