The Typist observed the old man and the smoker in silent contempt. Neither the noisy thrashing nor the smoke were doing her splitting headache any favors. Why the younger man even had enough slack to his chains to light a cigarette, she couldn't begin to guess-- both herself and the old man were shackled tightly to the wall, hands hanging above their heads. Already beginning to lose feeling in her stiff arms, the typist scanned the room desperately for any sign of a way out of the chains. Alas, everything more than a few inches away from her face was a blur, and the typist remembered that she wasn't wearing her glasses. Hoping they were in her purse which, miraculously, was still hanging off her shoulder-- but realizing, with a twinge of panic, that it wouldn't matter if she couldn't free her hands-- the typist kicked off one of her black penny loafers and started to feel around  blindly with her foot. 

The carpets were repugnant. Even without her vision, the typist could tell she was allowing her skin to come into contact with a dozen different varieties of filth. But she kept going. The typist suspected that whoever had brought her here, they didn't want her to just die in this room. She had a feeling someone was trying to punish her.

There had to be a key. 

>Collect