This round of "interrogation" was simply too much for Agent Hobbes. He strained against the chains holding him to the metal chair just far enough to spit fetid blood from his mouth and nodded his submission to the other figure in the room. He was all but blind from the swelling around his eyes.
The interrogator smiled. "Item number?" Hobbes heard his new master say through teeth filed into points. The tattoos on his head, in the shape of bull's horns, flexed menacingly as his forehead wrinkled. Hobbes used to think of him as the Minotaur. Now he was just the Master.