Threshold

From the doorway all that could be seen was the gleam of his cotton shirt and the whites of his eyes.  The rest of him was in shadow.   Unsurprising: boarded-up windows allowed only a thin-drawn rectangle of light.  He’d backed himself into the corner, somehow levered himself to standing, the bulk of him merging into the shadows.  I had to trust the shackles held.

Had to trust them too.   I didn’t know why they’d sent me to fetch him.  Didn’t know why they laughed behind me nor, when he saw me, why his teeth gleamed too, whispering, ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

One of my 100 word pieces for this week's Predction Fiction - using  flatter, cotton, shackle