He gropes the wall. A weak orange filament sputters to life, swaying nervously above them. He blinks. With a thud, the heavy door shuts, closing out all but the faintest rumble of surf.

Turning, he watches her take it in… the rusty cage, the metal chair, the serpentine coils of gray wire.

“Usually, they’re pleading for their lives now,” he says softly. He’s disappointed? Something else?

“What is this?” she asks. Panic.

He shoves her roughly into the cage. Door slams. He backs away slowly, watching the fear. Anxiety.

As he forces the breaker on, something hums to life. He sits, the metal chair cold through his dress shirt.

“I’m going to toss you the key,” he says quietly, “But if you open that door, you will be completing the circuit… and you’ll electrocute me.”

Watch it sink in. Relief at first. Then horror. Anticipation.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

“I do.”

Memories. He can see each one; feel their concern; their lips as they breath life into him; a fleeting moment of love.