A man lay slumped against the wall, his wrists bound by heavy iron shackles. His face, gaunt and weary, bore the marks of endless nights without rest. In the shadows, his eyes flickered with a blend of defiance and despair, as if each breath was both a battle and a surrender. The only witness to his torment was the whispering darkness that surrounded him.

The Interrogator stepped forward, the leather of his boots scraping against the stone floor. "You know why you're here," he said, his voice as cold as the iron chains. The man on the floor did not respond, his silence a shield against the questions that cut sharper than any blade.

The Captive finally spoke, "You may break my body, but you'll never own my soul." His voice, though cracked and raw, carried a strength born from sheer will. The Interrogator paused, a flicker of something—perhaps respect—crossing his features.

The Interrogator leaned closer, "Everyone has a breaking point. What's yours?" But the Captive only smiled faintly, as if he had already triumphed over something far more terrifying. The storm outside seemed to answer him, wind wailing like a banshee.

The Interrogatoreyes narrowing. "What is that?" "Hope," the Captive replied, "It's something you can't take from me." The words hung in the air, a testament to the indomitable spirit that refused to be crushed.

The Interrogator turned away, a shadow of doubt crossing his expression. The Captive, though still a prisoner, felt a sense of victory. "This isn't the end," he whispered to the empty room, his spirit unyielding as the rising sun. The Interrogator tore off the prisoners shirt and bound him tightly