Pant! Pant!

The scene opens with a close-up of a man’s mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his wrists are shackled to a chair.

A rhythmic drip of water hits the concrete, echoing through a dimly lit room, in what seems like the bowels of an abandoned building — a forgotten place, long lost to the world above. The walls, slick with moisture and grime, amplify every sound. The air is thick with the smell of rot, the sort of cold, smothering darkness that seemed to creep into your bones and stay there. The room itself is small, almost claustrophobic, its rough stone walls stained with years of neglect.

The single source of light hanging from a frayed wire dangles dangerously. A faint electrical buzz, a sickly hum, competes with the distant rumble of water running through rusted pipes overhead. The weak, yellowish glow casts long shadows that stretch and contort with every flicker, giving the room an eerie, almost haunted quality. Occasionally, the bulb gives a dying fizz, casting the room into near darkness for a heartbeat before sputtering back to life. The brief moments of blackness feel like a prelude to something sinister, a soundless threat lingering just beyond the reach of the faint yellow light.

Beyond the shadows, the light illuminates the man — motionless, strapped tightly to the chair. The dim glow cast harsh angles across his face, his body tensed despite his visible exhaustion. The chair he was bound to creaked with every slight movement, its wooden legs uneven on the cracked concrete floor. It felt ready to snap under his weight, its rough surface digging painfully into his skin.

Darkness wrapped around the man like a second skin. His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with a sleep that wasn’t natural, and his limbs felt weighted, like they were tethered to the floor. The thick air clung to his throat and made each breath feel like a labor.

The man shifted, or tried to. Chains rattled, cutting through the silence. That was the first realization — he was bound, wrists locked in cold metal cuffs. A low groan escaped his lips as he attempted to move his legs, only to find them similarly restrained.

Panic began to bubble in his chest, but it was sluggish, like his mind was struggling to catch up with what was happening. He blinked again, trying to focus on the space around him, barely visible in the faintest sliver of light that slipped through.

There was no furniture in the room aside from the chair and a small, rusted metal table pushed up against the far wall. The table’s surface was scarred with deep grooves, as though someone had taken a knife to it in a fit of rage or desperation. On it sat a dirty glass ashtray, filled to the brim with cigarette butts, their stubs still stained with ash. The faint, stale smell of nicotine clung to the air, mixing with the overpowering scent of mildew.

The walls, though mostly bare, had strange, faded marks on them — indistinct shapes, perhaps graffiti from long ago, or even bloodstains that time had washed into a dull brown smear. One corner of the room had a pile of old, rotting wooden crates stacked haphazardly, their lids partially pried open, revealing nothing but shredded packing materials and dust.

There were no windows. No way to tell if it was night or day. The only connection to the outside world was the steel door, heavily reinforced and fitted with a small, grated opening, like something out of a prison cell. Its surface was chipped and dented, signs that it had withstood years of abuse, likely from captives far less fortunate than the man.

It was a place designed to break anyone — silent, asphyxiating, with no sense of time or escape. Every inch of it radiated neglect and cruelty, a cage buried deep within the forgotten recesses of the city, far from any help one could hope for. The world outside might as well not exist; down here, there was only fear and the suffocating weight of the unknown.

“How did I get here?” He tried to remember.

His mind was a void, a fog where faces and places should have been. There were glimpses — flashes of a street, a drink, laughter — but they dissolved as quickly as they came, leaving him clutching at emptiness.

“You always run,” a female voice echoed in the back of his mind.

She was right. He had run. And now, there was nowhere left to go.

If he got out of this, he’d find her. Apologize. Maybe even explain everything he should have told her two years ago. If she’d still listen. If she still cared.

His head throbbed, the ache gnawing behind his eyes as the reality of his situation pressed down.

Beneath the constant drip of water and the hum of electricity, came another sound — a subtle tapping. It's almost imperceptible at first, but as the man’s ears strain, it becomes clearer: the sound of footsteps, deliberate and heavy, approaches from the other side of the door. Each step resonates like a countdown, sending vibrations through the cold, damp floor beneath the man’s feet.

The man froze. It wasn’t the first time he had heard them, but now, the sound felt more menacing. Closer. His heart quickened, the cuffs tightening as his body tensed. The dim light barely shifted, yet a shadow loomed from the doorway, and with it, the sickening certainty crept in: This wasn’t an accident. He wasn’t lost, or confused, or simply waking from a bad night.

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“What do they want from me?” the question echoed in his mind.

He was here because someone wanted him to be.

And they were coming back.

He blinked, the present slipping away as a voice echoed in his mind... “Ethan Russ, just the man I wanted to see.” The words felt too warm, too distant, for a place like this... but they pulled him back, to three days ago...

“Take a seat, please.”

The voice came from the back of a cluttered office, where books were stacked in haphazard piles, threatening to topple at any moment. Behind a desk, surrounded by drafts and manuscripts, sat an older man, early sixties, with graying hair slicked back and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose. His shirt, slightly wrinkled and rolled at the sleeves, was stained with ink on the cuff — a mark of a man who spent more time editing pages than worrying about appearances. Taro Hasegawa, chief editor at Wakagayama Publishing, had the look of someone who belonged to the golden days of print, where everything felt a bit more analog, a bit more deliberate.

The office matched him — old-school, with dark wooden furniture and bookshelves that seemed to groan under the weight of years. There was nothing sleek about it. The walls were lined with framed, faded covers of long-forgotten titles, except for one — a glossy, new bestseller that seemed out of place, its colors too bright for the room.

“Good morning, chief,” replied Ethan, stepping inside with a hesitant smile.

Ethan Russ, mid-thirties, was lean, with tousled dark hair and sharp features. He had a certain ruggedness that attributed to his effortless charm. Dressed in a worn leather jacket over a plain white tee, he carried the air of someone who had spent too much time holed up in front of a keyboard, his fingers stained with caffeine more than ink. There was something unmistakable about him — his confidence barely masking an undercurrent of exhaustion. He was a writer, and you could tell it by the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his brow furrowed as if his mind was always half somewhere else, wrestling with words.

Hasegawa leaned back in his chair, the creak of old wood filling the room. “You’re late on the new manuscript, Ethan. I’ve been waiting on it for a week now.”

Ethan shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been... going through something.” His voice trailed off, not wanting to say more than that. He wasn’t the type to overshare.

The editor smirked, his lips curling beneath a graying mustache. “Feel like getting a bike?”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Like, a motorcycle?”

“I had mine at forty-five. Wife absolutely hated it.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Spent more time dodging her glares than riding the damn thing.”

Ethan laughed nervously, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I don’t know, chief.”

“Got to shake things up, you know what I’m saying?” says Hasegawa with a grin.

“Yeah, maybe. But I promise I’ll be back on track soon, chief. I just wanted to come in and apologize in person.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, shifting slightly under the old man’s gaze.

The editor waved his hand dismissively. “Look, Russ, you’ve been solid up until now. Consistent. One little hiccup’s not going to make me sound the alarms.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his expression softening. “Your work’s been good lately. Really good. That last piece you turned in — well, it wasn’t a bestseller, but it’s kept you on the radar. People are starting to take notice. Don’t let this slump drag you down.”

Ethan nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit. “Thank you, chief. I’ll focus. Just needed to get my head straight.”

Hasegawa studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. But don’t let it slip any further, okay? I’m looking forward to that next manuscript. And, hey —” He pointed at Ethan with a wry smile. “If you need to buy a motorcycle, make sure the wife approves first.”

Ethan smiled, this time more genuine. “I’m not married yet, sir.”

Hasegawa raised an eyebrow, his smirk never wavering. “Oh? Well, that explains the missed deadlines. No one at home to guilt-trip you into getting your work done,” the editor said with a chuckle, his grin sharp as ever.

Ethan shook his head with a dry smile. “Guess I’ll have to start nagging myself then. Not sure it’ll be as effective.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” The editor leaned back again, his chair groaning as he picked up a manuscript from his desk. “Now, get back to work. I’ve got a pile here taller than me, and I’m not getting any younger.”

He could still hear Hasegawa’s calm voice in his head when — CRACK! The sound of breaking wood yanked him back to the present. His breath hitching as he tumbled backward, the chair splintering beneath him from the force of the fall.

A sharp kick landed square in his ribs, sending a wave of white-hot pain rippling through his side. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped, his voice trapped in his throat. His body jerked involuntarily, curling in on itself as another boot crashed into his stomach. The force knocked the air out of him completely, leaving him gasping for breath, his lungs burning as they struggled to take in the smallest sliver of oxygen.

Thud!

Another kick. His body convulsed, his vision swimming with spots as his muscles twitched uncontrollably, unable to brace for the next blow. Every movement felt like jagged glass tearing through his skin, the pain too much to focus on one spot. It was everywhere — his ribs, his stomach, his legs, his back. Agony blurred the edges of his awareness, leaving him barely conscious of the sound of his own choking breaths, the grunts of the men standing over him.

“What did I do to deserve this?!” he screamed in his head.

One of them, a heavyset figure, grabbed him by the collar, yanking him upright like a ragdoll. His legs gave out beneath him, hanging limp as his feet scraped against the ground, barely finding purchase. His head lolled to the side, eyes glazed over with pain. He could barely make out the second man stepping forward, drawing back his fist.

The punch came, a brutal blow to the jaw that snapped his head sideways. He heard the sickening crack before he felt it — his vision exploding in a flash of white as his head whipped back, the force nearly dislocating his neck. His body shuddered, but there was no escape, no relief from the torment.

They dropped him again, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap. He felt the cold cement against his cheek, slick with sweat and blood. His limbs were heavy, lifeless. Another stomp crashed into his lower back, a sharp burst of agony that sent tremors down his spine. He couldn’t even flinch anymore — his body was shutting down, retreating into the numbness of shock.

The kicks continued, a dull, rhythmic thud that vibrated through his bones. His body had stopped responding. His mind teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, balancing between awareness and the merciful darkness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He wanted to let go. To disappear into that darkness and never feel another kick, another punch, another breath. But they weren’t done with him yet.