Han Hong blinked and tried to see. He’d removed the blindfold but she remained in darkness – in here it was as dark as shit. She was out of her cage, she knew that much. He must have moved her while she slept.
The soup. From the throbbing in her temples, she guessed he’d laced it. She didn’t know how long she’d been out for, or what had happened while she was down for the count, but at least she was out of the cage.
She tried to stretch her arms. They were behind her. As she jiggled her wrists, she realised they were secured loosely to a thin post. She tried to think straight, assess her position. Bare legs, no underpants, cold concrete chafing at her bottom. Irritation trickled through her, threatening to overpower fear. She wished she were clothed, not for modesty’s sake, but for comfort and warmth.
She’d thrown modesty out the window a long time ago. The first time she’d made a video, she’d let it all go.
Han Hong shifted and discovered that her neck was held flat against the post by a thin cord. It bit into her skin and drew tighter if she turned her head to the side. Her captor was forcing her to stare straight ahead. She’d made videos for them before – why the sudden change and the imprisonment?
The light flashed on.
She closed her eyes against the brightness. Her mind registered patterns, all orange and red, the blood vessels in her head.
When she opened her eyes she saw a man in a mask, a simple black stocking stretched tightly across his face. It distorted his features, but she could tell that he was thick-lipped and pudgy. He sat on a camp stool, his belly bulging from under his windcheater to hang over his tracksuit pants. Just behind him was a light. It looked like a professional cinematography lamp, thin and straight. It had a powerful burn. The man held a video camera. She saw the red light – it was on. This, at least, was grotesquely familiar. But she’d not yet made a film in this room, before a man in a mask.
Han Hong crossed her legs. She tried to scan her surroundings, but the cord around her neck prevented movement. He’d tied her to her mark.
‘Smile for the camera, baby,’ he said. The voice came thick and slightly muffled through the stocking. An Australian accent.
Nausea built in Han Hong’s stomach. She fought to control it. If she vomited she would choke.
‘Come on, you’re a movie star.’
She wanted to scream. She tried to think clearly. Where was she? What was this?
‘I said smile.’ Her captor sounded in no mood for games.
Han Hong had no option. She stretched her mouth into a thin grin, cringing as the dry skin on her lips cracked.