The boy awoke with a gasp. He tugged on the rope bound around his wrists, cursing under his breath when he realised he couldn't move. He could feel something, probably blood, dripping down his face. His forehead was throbbing in tune with his too-loud heartbeat, almost drowning out the sound of his uneven breathing.

He looked around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim room. He could see a two-way mirror and a speaker into corner. He pieced together what had happened quickly, feeling panic swell in his chest when the severity of the situation hit him.

He summoned to last of his courage to spit out the words, "What is this? An interrogation?"

A voice cackled through the receiver. "Hello, Joshua," a man said. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Joshua?" the boy repeated. "I don't know a Joshua. Look, Chief, you've got the wrong guy."

"Joshua Dun," the voice spoke. "The only son of Bill Dun, a mobster in the Chechen Mafia. You have ties to the American mafia, too. The Colombo Family, no?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the boy replied, his voice low.

"You can drop the accent," the man said. "You're in Russia, you imbecile. We know you're not American."

The boy laughed andes shook his head. He flinched when the blood from his forehead reached his eye, partially blocking his vision. He ignored the pain and spoke with his normal accent. "What do you want with me?"

"We want nothing from you, really," the voice answered. "Just your father. He took something of ours, and now we're taking something of his."

"Of course," the boy chuckled. "Russian Mafia, right? What has my father done now? Wait, no- let me guess. He killed your baby. I wouldn't put it past him. He doesn't care about age. He just cares about blood."

The boy heard a metallic scraping and jumped. He tried to see what it was, but he couldn't turn around. He smiled when a man appeared in front of him, looking angry. He could tell it wasn't the man from the speaker. The guy in front of him was strong-looking and tall; he was obviously a hired bodyguard or a professional-violent-guy.

"You look like a Marco," the boy beamed. "Can I call you Marco?"

The man -or Marco, as the boy had decided- raised his fist in reply. He brought it down just as fast on the boy's face.

The boy spat blood from his mouth as spitefully as he could in Marco's direction. "Are you gonna kill me or what?"

The man from the speaker spoke up instead of his muscly pet. "Of course we are, Joshua. That doesn't mean we have to do it quickly."

"Of course," the boy muttered, rolling his eyes.

He braced himself as another blow landed, this one directed towards his stomach. Marco continued to beat him, his emotionless expression never faltering. The boy closed his eyes, attempting to seperate himself from the situation. He had gone through worse pain. He had been kidnapped before. And it always ended the same- with everyone dead and the boy saved. He had been getting tortured since he was twelve years old.

Almost as if it was timed, a gunshot shattered the mirror. The boy laughed when he saw a group of men in bulletproof vests, all holding guns. Marco paused, still holding the boy's collar, who was snickering like a toddler. He heard the door open behind him, relief coursing through his veins.

The boy winced when a bullet wizzed over his head. He watched as Marco fell to the ground, a puddle of blood forming beneath him. The ropes were cut from around the boy's wrists and ankles, setting him free. He stood up shakily, wiping blood from his face, and limped towards his best friend, who was stepping forward to help him.

The two boys embraced, both of them relieved beyond words to see each other. The boy pulled away, clutching his stomach. He lightly punched his friend's arm.

The second boy feigned pain and clutched his shoulder. "What was that for?"

"You really took your fucking time, Brendon."