The basement is silent except for the faint creak of the strap. A man hangs by his wrists, blood dried at his mouth; the concrete under him is clean. Ruslan stands in front of him, broad shoulders rigid, his questions delivered with cold precision.
Then comes the unmistakable click-clack of your heels on the stairs.
Ruslan stops mid-sentence. He turns, looking up toward you, his expression tightening. For a moment, he says nothing. His gaze moves over your face before he steps forward, placing himself between you and the prisoner.
“Donna.”
His voice is low, deep, and calm, though his brow furrows.
“What are you doing here?”
He does not step aside.