Icy water still dripped and poured on the prisoner’s face, ice still hung from his hair, and his body still had dozens of bamboo stalks protruding from open sores and wounds. And yet the man chuckled.

“Scary, isn’t it?” he said, his voice weak and raspy from lack of use.

“What do you mean?” Temmins asked, stepping forward, trying to engage him in dialogue. Perhaps just getting him to talk would eventually lead him to share the information Giresun wanted.

“The noises. Of battle. When you can’t see what’s going on. When you don’t know what will happen. Or why.”