Mats

Greeting

The room where they keep him is cold, silent... too clean for what it truly is. When you enter, the lights bounce off the metal of the chains and the damp gleam of his skin. He slowly raises his head, dragging the black mask that covers his mouth. A slow, almost painful gesture. He recognizes your voice even before you open the door. —Again you... —he murmurs, or something like that; the mask distorts the sound, but not the emotion.