The Tailor Who Stitched the Truth for the King of the Underworld
I applied pressure, twisting the bodkin to the left.
My hand was cramping.
The steel rod dug into my palm, but I kept pushing.
I felt a slight give.
I gave it a hard, quick twist.
*Click.*
The left cuff popped open, hanging loose from my wrist.
I let out a shaky breath, my forehead leaning against the cold iron pipe.
I quickly unlocked the right cuff, letting the heavy metal bracelets fall away.
I rubbed my wrists, feeling the deep, red welts the steel had left behind.
I stood up, my knees shaking slightly from sitting in the cold for so long.
I needed to find an exit.
I walked quietly across the damp concrete, keeping to the shadows.
The warehouse was filled with rows of old wooden crates, rusted shipping containers, and discarded machinery.
To my left, a row of massive industrial boilers stood against the brick wall.
They were ancient, commercial-grade steam units, the kind used for processing imported textiles or curing sailcloth.
I walked over to them, my boots making no sound on the wet floor.