There is nothing worse than the deep, bone-hollow exhaustion that comes from prolonged exposure to freezing cold. And that was coming from someone who grew up believing my father’s and every other syndicate’s torture methods were the pinnacle of suffering.
Having a finger chopped off to extract information, for instance, sucked. I was only ten years old when I accidentally walked into the estate kitchen, completely oblivious, and found a grown man sobbing like a child while clutching a bloody hand to his chest. It took my young brain a few seconds to process the scene. Then, I spotted the severed digit resting casually on the polished marble table.
My mother tried her best to spin the situation afterward, painting the man as pure evil, but the sight never left me. That was the exact day
