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Summary
The wooden stairs creaked ominously with every step Albert took as he descended into the dimly lit depths of the basement. A metal tray was balanced carefully in his hands with an assortment of tools that were concealed by their sterile packaging. Each creak and groan punctuated the announcement of his presence. Upon reaching the bottom, he stepped silently onto the cold hard concrete and straightened a fraction more. His cool blue eyes turned towards the unmoving figure slouched over in the seat beneath the bare swaying bulb above them.
Albert’s strides were measured with the stone cold calm the reputable Captain always portrayed in every situation. He moved with poise, drinking in the wilted figure of a man chained to the metal frame of the chair.
He donned the medical gloves with a distinctive snap. His blue eyes never tore away from the man's wilted and seemingly helpless posture. Albert wasn't so gullible as to believe this ruse. A black leather strap cut a red line against his cheek where it was tightly secured to a bite bar in the man's mouth. His head hung in a look that displayed a sense of exhausted defeat.
Albert knew better than that. Chris was a man that never knew when to quit.