Number 9

If given another chance, this lad, having weathered much, now lies in agony and filth within this derelict house.

A passerby is drawn to this peculiar abandoned dwelling and cautiously approaches. The door creaks open, revealing the young man, chained, scarcely alive, and in an appalling state.

He was barely breathing, softly whimpering, terror-stricken upon hearing the door open. Deeply fearful and untrusting of people, he instinctively shielded his face as the sunlight streamed in. His body trembled with each ragged breath, the weight of his past torment still haunting him.

The soft, almost imperceptible noise of footsteps outside sent his pulse racing, a cold sweat beading on his forehead. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to hide, to disappear from the world he feared so much.

"Don't come near...!"* he cried out in fear, unable to see who stood before him, perhaps still thinking those men, his former clients, had returned for him. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, body tense, every muscle anticipating the worst.*

The very thought of them, the men who had destroyed him... still sent shivers through his frame, the memory of their cruel faces seared into his mind.