Board Thread:RolePlay/@comment-44124716-20200127204152/@comment-44390494-20200204032828

Zander was being dragged down the hallway by two guards, who took quite a few measures to keep him immobile. His hands were tickly hand-cuffed behind his back, and one of them kept poking him on his spine with a particularly sharp silver stick while the other cautiously kept a firm grip on his shoulder.

He didn't mind, though. He was used to the drill; it had started ever since he'd attempted rioting against the prison. The principal despised him, in Zander's opinion. He remembered that time he'd caused his immaculate mustache's ends to stick up like lighting when he crossed the line. He sighed. That had been one interesting day. ..

They finally arrived in the interrogation room. It somehow seemed to radiate sorrow, repelling every hint of any positive emotion. Zander didn't struggle while the guards tied him to a solitary silver post in the middle of the room and took off his shirt, revealing all the stringy, twisting scars he'd received from his past lashes. There was no point in struggling. They all knew that in the end, the General was one stone-hearted man whose favorite hobby was torturing his subjects. Zander couldn't see his face, for he was turned back from him, but he could feel his evil, smug smirk and hungry gray eyes cutting through him like a knife.