Julian knew by heart the location of every spring on the decrepit couch. According to the clock he'd been sitting on it for 4 hours, shifting between seats trying to find a spot that wouldn't jab him in the ass. There wasn't any.

At least it was a break from Antoine's mad attention. He'd had Julian dictate the text of the forum post to 'summon Marcos,' frequently bellowing 'STOP' as he hunted for each letter on the keyboard. Julian breathed an audible sigh of relief when the typing was finished and question successfully posted; he'd half expected the session to have expired.

By way of celebration Antoine produced a half-liter of some local spirit with a cross on the bottle. He poured a splash of sticky bitter concoction down Julian's throat, muttering something about 'health.' The rest he drank down with a desperate urgency, his face spasming between swigs.

Antoine dropped the empty bottle where he stood and stumbled into the back room, closing the door behind him. A lock engaged, then there was silence

Which is how Julian came to find himself sitting on this miserable couch watching a clock spin slowly round. Was he squandering his only chance to do something? But what? Julian stood and paced anxiously across the bare floor.

All the doors were locked, his hands were zip-tied behind his back, and there was nothing sharp in the whole place - he'd checked. He paused in front of the discarded liquor bottle, swung his foot back to kick, then thought the better of it. The crash might wake Antoine and bring on another bout of crazed wrath.

The crash. Broken glass. Damn, the answer was in front of him the whole time. If he'd had a hand free to facepalm he would have done it.

Julian tiptoed over and put his ear to Antoine's door. A low droning snore was clearly audible. Still asleep, but for how much longer? Did it matter? Once Antoine realized Julian had tricked him it was going to be a slow and painful death. This might be the last chance to get away.

Now he needed to figure out a way to quietly break the bottle. Julian padded into the kitchen, looking for inspiration.

Antoine had cleaned up after 'dinner.' The plates and silverware had gone to the dishwasher, the napkins downstairs. The only thing left out was the soiled rag Antoine had used to mop up vomit, still stewing in the bottom of the sink. Disgusting. But it could work.

Julian took a deep breath, held it, and stuck his face into the basin. He grimaced as he caught one fetid corner in his teeth, again fighting the urge to gag. He hurried back to the booze bottle and spit the rag on top of it.

Done with the gross bit, time to crack the sucker with a couch leg. The bottle was round, but thankfully it had a circular indentation for the logo and a matching divot in the back. If he could line it up right, it should be stable under a couch leg.

Julian kneeled low in front of the couch, facing away. He grabbed the underside with his bound hands and lifted, then scooted the bottle under with his foot.

When he let go the couch leg came down on the rounded part of the bottle and it skidded out from under, unharmed. Swing and a miss.

Julian adjusted the rag cover and tried again. This time he successfully centered the leg on top of the cross logo. He imagined Antoine's voice: "X marks the spot, as they say."

Now to break the bottle without waking him. Julian stood in front of the couch, jumped up, and came down hard on the cushion with both knees.

Thud! The couch scooted an inch but the bottle didn't break. At least the leg had stayed in the divot. Julian listened for any sound from Antoine's room. Nothing.

Time to get a little more aggressive. He flipped the nearest cushion up, exposing the frame. Julian stepped up onto the couch, then jumped up and landed hard on the frame with his heels. Crack! Thump!

The couch leg was back on the ground, the dishrag trapped beneath it. A few shards of glass poked out from under the cloth. Julian grinned, then froze. Footsteps from the other room.

A quick check showed only the cushion and the bottle were out of place. He nudged the cushion back down, but there was no time to hide the glass.

Metal rasped on metal as Antoine unlocked his door. Julian sat down and prayed the broken bottle would go unnoticed. The door opened.

"Everything alright out here Julian?" There was no cheer or menace this time. Antoine just sounded dull.

Julian looked back over his shoulder. "Yep, doing fine thank you," he squeaked out. Damn. Calm it down.

"I heard something fall. What was it?" A note of suspicion had entered Antoine's voice. He reached for his pocket.

"I uh... I was trying to read the nudie mag. With my feet." Julian said sheepishly. "I slipped and fell off the couch."

Antoine chuckled, relaxing. "Try to keep it down lovebird. I need my beauty sleep." He turned back into the room, re-engaging the lock.

Julian sat stock still, hardly daring to breathe. Cold sweat pooled against the pleather couch. The clock ticked off ten minutes before he risked moving again. He snuck back to the door. More snores, thank god.

Crouching next to the couch leg, he examined his bounty. The bottle had broken pretty clean, two big chunks, a few medium pieces, and a smattering of smaller shards embedded in the rag. Julian identified a suitable mid-sized one that was easy to reach. It was part of the base, thicker and easier to grip, with a nice point for cutting. Julian had a quiet chuckle about seeking hope from the bottom of a liquor bottle.

He backed in carefully, lightly probing with his fingers. Should be right about– pain jabbed into his thumb. He stifled a curse, then adjusted his approach and got a safe grip on the shard.

With a little twist of one wrist he positioned the cutting edge against the plastic tie. He sawed about a third of the way through, then flexed and pulled the plastic apart.

Damn that felt nice. He shook his arms vigorously, working blood back into the hands, then checked them for damage. His wrists were raw, and he had a puncture on one thumb from grabbing the glass.

He hoped the residual alcohol from the bottle would counter whatever pestilence was in that rag. Maybe he could find a band-aid after... what? Julian honestly hadn't expected to get this far, he was all out of plan.

Escape was still impossible. Without the key he couldn't get out the door, and there were no windows to sneak through. Fighting seemed almost as hopeless. There weren't any good weapons; the glass shards were too small and impractical to do real damage, and the most dangerous thing he could find in the kitchen was the can opener. Maybe he could bash Antoine with the microwave?

Whatever he chose he probably only had one shot. In a fair fight Antoine would whoop him, plus he was pretty sure Antoine had a gun.

He returned to the living room, the flush of success draining away. So far all he'd succeeded in doing was moving up the date of his execution. He never figured he'd die in a windowless room full of budget Ikea furniture. He even had that same coffee table back at his student flat; one of the legs wouldn't quite screw all the way in, giving it a perpetual wobble.

This time he did facepalm, lightly so as not to wake Antoine. Julian cleared off the table and flipped it gently over, then unscrewed all the legs.

They were made from two pieces: a block of birch, and a double-sided fastener that screwed into both the leg and the table. The first three legs came off as just the post, but the last one still had the screw attached. Perfect. He took the leg with the fastener and one of the ones without and screwed them together, forming a solid wood bat almost as long as his arm.

He tried embedding broken glass into his Ikea-hack cudgel (Hjedsmaak? Skølhamar?), but only succeeded in grinding the shards into smaller pieces. Finally he realized he was just avoiding what needed to be done.

Julian had never been in a fight, the odds on this one seemed... long. Better to go now, while he still had the element of surprise, and a small amount of nerve.

"ANTOINE! FIRE!" Julian yelled at the top of lungs. Then he stepped to the side of the door with the bat raised over his head.