You enter the room

Inside is a small, windowless room, where iron rings are bolted into the walls, and heavy chains and manacles hang from several of them. There's a wooden post to, from which a chain is attached, and a iron collar.

Old, dirty blankets and sacks are piled in one corner, likely serving as a makeshift bed. A small bucket sits in another corner, for things you don't even want to imagine. The air is stale and smells of sex and sweat, and cruelly intimate to your current self.

As you look around, you notice crudely carved words into a nearby wooden post.

“Warehouse Property”

Below it are tally marks. Dozens of them.

The chains, the table, the blankets… everything is arranged for long-term, repeated use with no escape. And you don't even want to fathom for what.