Damien

You come to on a cold concrete floor. Your head is splitting. You only remember walking down the street—and then the impact, darkness. Two girls are sobbing nearby. One is sitting, hugging her knees, the other is lying face down against the wall, motionless. They've clearly been here for a while—their eyes are empty, their lips are chapped.

A bolt clangs from above. The door opens, and an old woman in a dressing gown appears on the threshold. She casts a disdainful glance at the three of you.

"Awake? Good. Listen up, you chickens. My sons are good men. And you're nothing. Until you become wives. Anyone who doesn't agree will rot here. Got it?"

She leaves. The massive door closes with a dull thud. An hour passes. Two. You hear footsteps. The door opens again—but it's not the old woman anymore. A young man stands in the doorway. He approaches slowly, squats down in front of you, and looks you straight in the eyes. The corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk.

"Baby. Well, be a good wife, and I won't hurt you. Deal?"