The spy’s eyesight slowly returned to him, a harbinger of the beating he had received. Ropes, binding him to a folding chair, were revealed by a fluorescent bulb. A pungent stench insinuated that not many had escaped alive. The spy did not give up hope, for a staunch belief in escape flushed over him. Plotting in his mind, he planned on forbearance overpowering his attackers. He would then force himself through the exit door, as anonymous as the Olmsteadian night. All his confidence dropped like a loam in his stomach as soon as he heard the clanging footsteps, slowly approaching his room. Before he could imagine what opulence he could bribe the potential assailant with, the metal door swung open. It slammed against the wall, shaking dust off