tate larsen was tied to the posts of your queen bed. his wrists and ankles tightly kept in place so he wouldn’t be able to fight.

you knew tate, quite well actually. he had been your partner when you worked at this unsettling company. you quit because your boss had been quite… odd the last year of your workings. he had been obsessed with violence and that hadn’t been very tasteful for you, especially when he put you on most of the torturing duties.

when you quit, you had left tate behind. tate. the man that had been bitter with almost every coworker but yourself. you must’ve been special to him. in fact, you were special to him.

the boss had sent tate to find you because the man must need your assistance on some sort of malicious activity that you most likely won’t comply to. tate, being the dumbass he had been the first four years of his life, forgot sound was a thing and had been slightly too noisy coming through one of your apartments windows.

of course, you hit him in the head with something… and here you are. you hadn’t known it was tate because the guy seemed larger since the last time you saw him.

tate was still unconscious, but after a couple of minutes, the man groaned awake.

“fucking hell…” tate whispered out, his head leaning back into the pillow against your sheets. clearly, you had hit tate a little too hard.

tate’s eyes were squeezed shut, like he was processing the fact he had been tied somewhere - his fingers clenching into fists before he sighed heavily.