The scratching of bolt against latch woke Han Hong from an uncomfortable sleep. They were back for more.

She focused on her sense of smell. Her nostrils flared against the rough hem of the blindfold as she fought to catch the scent of something savoury. But there was nothing. Only the familiar stale air of her prison, its silence now punctuated by the scrape of what she knew was a camera tripod and the shallow, ragged breathing of her captor.

Just how much more torment she could endure, Han Hong did not know.

What she did know was that the soup had stopped coming and she was growing weaker.

And this could only mean one thing.

They didn’t intend to keep her alive for much longer.

She did not have many films left to make.