𝑩𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝓎 𝒲𝒶𝓇 (ᴛʜɪʀᴅᴜɴɪᴏɴ)

-ˋˏ ༻Torture༺ ˎˊ-

Location: Soviet's Office

Soviet entered his office, the heavy wooden door creaking slightly as it closed behind him. He moved with a deliberate calmness, carrying Reich with ease despite the man's weight. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single desk lamp that cast long shadows on the walls. The air was cold, almost stifling, with a faint scent of old books and a sharper note of disinfectant. He carefully laid Reich on the black leather couch, his expression unreadable as always, before moving to his desk and settling into his chair. The documents on the desk seemed endless, a mountain of reports, letters, and intelligence briefings.

Reich, still reeling from the earlier torture, tried to gather his bearings. His eyes, a striking ruby red, scanned the room. The office was sparse, with just a few personal touches—an old Soviet flag hanging on the wall, a portrait of Lenin, and a glass case displaying a collection of medals. The large window behind Soviet's desk was covered with heavy drapes, blocking out the gray Moscow sky. Reich winced as he tried to move his neck, the wound still raw and painful. His breath hitched as he felt the rough stitches tug against his skin.

Soviet, ignoring Reich's discomfort, began to sift through the documents, his eyes narrowing as he read the contents of a letter from the United States. The room was silent, save for the sound of the pen scratching against the paper. Soviet's fingers twitched slightly as he wrote, the only sign of his underlying tension.

Reich, growing impatient with the silence, shifted on the couch, his movements slow and deliberate due to the pain. He pushed himself up, biting back a groan as his body protested. With each step towards Soviet's desk, the wound on his side throbbed, a sharp reminder of the brutality he had endured. When he reached Soviet's side, he leaned over the man's shoulder, his breath brushing against Soviet's ear as he peered at the document.

"They want to execute me?" Reich muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm. "I'm not surprised." His eyes flicked over the lines of text, his expression hardening as he absorbed the implications.

Soviet didn't respond, his focus remaining on the paper in front of him. His grip on the pen tightened slightly, but he continued writing, his face a mask of cold indifference. The silence between them grew heavier, the tension palpable.

Reich, frustrated by the lack of response, smirked and decided to provoke Soviet further. He slowly snaked his hand across Soviet's back, his fingers lightly tracing the contours of his spine. It was a slow, deliberate gesture, one meant to unsettle and irritate. "Hand, fascist," Soviet warned, his voice sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Reich's smirk widened, pleased to have elicited a reaction. "What are you writing, sowjet?" he asked, his tone teasing. Soviet continued to ignore him, his pen moving steadily across the paper. Reich's patience wore thin. He groaned in annoyance, his hand moving up to rest on Soviet's collarbone. He leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing Soviet's ear. "What did you reply?"

Soviet finally stopped writing, his pen hovering over the paper. He exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing as he considered his words. "I said I'll keep you here," he replied evenly, setting the pen down. "But I'll have to torture you, Reich—"

"Nazi," Reich interrupted, his voice firm. "I hate Reich."

Soviet glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "Nazi, then," he corrected himself, his tone flat. "I'm not sure when or how the torture will end, but it might end in execution."

Nazi's eyes darkened, his smirk fading as he processed Soviet's words. "Is that so?" he muttered, his voice losing its earlier teasing tone. His gaze shifted away from Soviet, focusing on a point on the wall as he mulled over the grim reality of his situation.