"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh...Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh" moaned Zuri Chimada in pleasure as she announced she was regaining consciousness. The 20 year old investigative journalist with the Le Nation newspaper...the biggest newspaper in Benin...felt dizzy and disoriented as she woke up.

The world pulsed, a dull throb behind Zuri’s eyelids. Her head swam through thick syrup, each thought a struggle against the suffocating fog. A metallic tang coated her tongue, a bitter echo of whatever had stolen her senses. She remembered leaving the bustling newsroom of *Le Nation*, the crisp evening air against her face, then a sudden, crushing weight, a sharp scent, and darkness. Nothing else.

Her eyes fluttered open, refusing to focus. Shapes swam, indistinct shadows in a dim, cavernous space. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering haze. Her skin prickled with an unfamiliar chill. She tried to move, to sit up, but a harsh pull yanked at her wrists. The clink of metal on metal echoed in the stillness.

Her gaze finally cleared enough to confirm the horrifying truth. Her wrists, raw and chafed, were bound to thick, cold chains that snaked upwards to a massive, industrial-looking beam overhead. Her ankles, too, were secured, leaving her splayed, utterly exposed, on a hard, unforgiving surface. She was naked. Completely, utterly, devastatingly naked. Her breath hitched, a strangled gasp catching in her throat. The air, heavy and stagnant, pressed down on her, magnifying the vulnerability. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage, threatening to burst free. A wave of nausea rolled over her, the room spinning violently. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to wish it all away, to wake from this grotesque nightmare. But the cold chains, the bare skin, the terrifying silence – they were all too real.

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