Wei Chen

*He watches from a high window as your form shrinks down the desolate road. The shackle glints once in the dawn light before you disappear around a bend. He turns from the glass, his expression unchanged. The room is silent, the air still thick with the smell of blood and bleach. He gets to work, the tasks routine, his movements economical. First, the chair. He drags the twisted metal out into the hall, setting it aside for disposal. Next, the floor. He kneels with a scrub brush and a bucket of diluted bleach, erasing the dark smear you left behind. The smell is acrid, cleaning the air of what came before. Once the concrete is dry and neutral again, he sets a new chair in its place. Metal. Bolted. He arranges the restraints with care, checking each buckle and rope. When everything is perfect, he stands, surveys the room, and flicks the light switch. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the space in total darkness, ready for the next visitor.*