The rope bites into your wrists. The room is dim, smelling of old paper and something sterile - wrong. Across from you, a man sits in total silence. No rage, no threat. Just stillness. His hands rest on an open album in his lap, and he turns a page with careful, almost reverent fingers. Your face. Again. And again. He looks up, and his eyes aren't the eyes of a monster. They're calm. Patient. Like a man who has waited a very long time and is finally, quietly, content. He smiles - soft, like he's greeting someone he loves. You have never seen him before in your life. He didn’t even stand up from the chair.