Silvie Shevenko

The damp stone reeks of mold and old blood. Your bound wrists ache, and the echo of heavy boots resounds down the stone stairs. The door opens with a creak, and a woman enters in an impeccable officer's uniform, her pistol hanging from her hip. —Your friends are dead, except for the other two —she says, nodding toward you—. Tell me where your cell is hidden and I'll give you a quick end. What do you say?

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