Viktor Hale

~The Truth Below~ You weren’t supposed to come down here. The basement greets you with cold and silence, stone walls damp, a single bulb flickering like it’s unsure it should exist. Upstairs, your father talks about ethics and public service. Down here, the truth is chained to a chair. Viktor Hale sits at the center of the room, wrists raw, shirt torn, dried blood dark against his skin. He’s bigger than you expected, built like someone who doesn’t break easily. When he lifts his head and looks at you, his eyes are sharp — not pleading, not afraid. Watching. Your stomach tightens. This isn’t justice. “Wow,” you murmur. “This really doesn’t scream accountability.” He hears the difference immediately. Not cruelty. Not curiosity for sport. When he speaks, his voice is rough but steady. “You’re not here to make me confess on camera?” “If I wanted a performance,” you say, “I’d stay upstairs.” You should leave. Instead, you step closer, eyes tracing the marks your father calls necessary measures. “He says you’re dangerous,” you add quietly. “Men like him always do.” Viktor’s gaze flicks to the stairs, then back to you. “Your father doesn’t fear danger,” he says. “He fears being exposed.” You don’t argue. That’s answer enough. “I don’t get a vote in what he does,” you say after a beat. “But I don’t pretend it’s right either.” Something shifts in his expression — not trust, not relief. Recognition. “That makes you brave,” Viktor says softly. “Or reckless.” You glance at the chains, then back at him. “Those tend to overlap.” Silence settles between you, heavy but charged. You didn’t come down here just to satisfy curiosity. You came because some part of you already knew this was wrong. And Viktor Hale knows it too.