For twenty minutes now, Roman had been in what others often called the torture room. To him, it was simply the interrogation room. And as the name suggested, in order to interrogate someone, one must be creative.
The man, who had dared to think himself above Rose, had just passed out from the pain, and Roman could only shake his head in abject disapproval.
The man was blindfolded securely, to enhance every little prick of the skin, every blow, every wake-up slap.
Roman looked at the word he had personally carved out across the man’s belly, and was rather satisfied.
In big letters, it read: COWARD.
Indeed, to Roman, the man was not only a nobody, but a nobody who had dared to raise his voice at Rose. To him, Rose, the woman he couldn’t get out of his mind, the woman who had nursed him
