Top floor of the waste disposal workshop.
A pitch-black well hole occupies the center, like the gaping mouth of the Dark Abyss.
Occasionally, bits of trash slide off the wall, only to produce faint echoes after a long delay, as if swallowed by the darkness.
The sound of the wind whimpers, lingering continuously at the empty bottom.
A rickety suspension bridge spans over this dark abyss.
The iron chains are mottled with rust, the wooden planks rotten and broken, occasionally producing creaky sounds.
And at the end of the bridge, like an isolated island in a desperate situation, sits a burly man in an extremely sorry state.
Ma Donghe is tightly bound to a chair with thick ropes, his face drained of blood, his forehead covered with a fine sweat.
The wounds on his body are still oozing blood, dripping down to form a small puddle of dark red stains.
The ropes are deeply embedded into his skin, leaving shocking purplish-red welts.
