A wiry young man sits on a wooden dining chair, nearly naked except for a pair of plaid boxers.
His thin, well-defined arms are cuffed behind him.
His eyes red, puffy.
His face clearly stained with tears.
“You… you can’t do this to me…” he whispers.
His captor arches an impeccably groomed eyebrow. “Oh, no?” she asks.
She smiles as she reaches for the perfectly chilled martini resting on a small yet priceless antique side table. She takes a healthy sip before returning the glass, never once breaking eye contact with her captive.
“And why exactly is that, my dear?”
The Weekday One Hundred 