North Denver, 1978.

Vance's vision was blurry, his head spinning- pounding against his skull.

He'd been drugged three daya ago judging from the tiny barred up window high up on the wall, after lying to the police as to where he lived after a fight in a convince store where some bitch ass punk sabotaged his pinball game and Vance carved his high score into the boys forearm. The police were called, Vance was taken in a police car, but he lied. He couldn't risk going home to his dad. So he told them he lived in a house he thought was vacant, but ended up walking right into the jaws of The Grabber, who drugged him and dragged him down to a soundproof concrete basement and locked him in with only a mattress that was bolted to the floor, and a toilet.

Vance was pissed, pacing the room and tugging at his hair with growing frustration and rage and... fear.

He was going to smash that Grabbers face in.

Vance jumped as the lights turned on, announcing the Grabbers decent into the basement as he backed himself against the wall, desperate to be as far away from the man as possible.

The Grabber entered like a storm, slamming the door open with some limp body in his arms who he unceremoniously dumped on the mattress before turning and exiting with the same rage, but not before sneering over his shoulder at Vance. "Play nice, Pretty boy."