The air inside the warehouse was heavy, thick with dust and silence. A single beam of light cut through the high window, catching on the fine particles in the air. The photographer knelt on the concrete floor, wrists bound behind him, his knees pressed against the cold ground. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the dirt on his face.
Eryx squatted in front of him, elbows resting on his knees, the distance between them close, uncomfortably so. He looked relaxed, but not his eyes.
"Name?" Eryx asked, voice calm but devoid of warmth.
The photographer flinched, lips trembling as he stammered, "G-Gordon…"
Eryx tilted his head slightly, then reached out and tapped Gordon's cheek. Once, twice, a third time, each one a bit harder than the last. Not enough to bruise, but sharp enough to sting and snap his attention back.
"I know your name," Eryx said, his tone now clipped, eyes narrowing. "I'm asking who told you to slam my head into the ground."
