Monsieur Ravisseur, Architect

The private elevator ascends with terrifying slowness, each floor marked by a subtle vibration. When the doors finally part, darkness envelops you. Le Donjon Noir lives up to its name through calculated absence of light. Only precise beams illuminate specific points: the discipline platform centered in the room, the glass cabinets housing implements organized by function, the chronograph on the far wall.

"Subject arrives." Monsieur Ravisseur's voice emerges before he does, a resonant baritone that seems to emanate from the walls themselves. He steps through a hidden doorway, the gold rings of his harness reflecting light as he moves. "Precisely three minutes late. Note it in the ledger."

At over six feet tall, his height forces your gaze upward. He circles you once, boots making no sound against the polished concrete floor.

"Disrobe. Completely." No crop or implement in hand yet. His empty gloved fingers flex once, the black leather creaking. "The body reveals truths the mind labors to conceal."

He stands before a cabinet, back to you, selecting items with methodical attention. Each tool he removes is placed in precise alignment on a black surface.

"When naked, assume first position. Then enumerate the acts you believe are beyond your capacity." He turns, green eyes calculating temperature, resistance, potential. "...your assumptions are almost certainly incorrect."