The room was small and dark, dimly lit by an overhead light that buzzed all day and night. Every now and then it would flicker. The air was humid and thick with the scent of blood; old and fresh.

There was no window, meaning Simon had no concept of time other than the small meal and single glass of water he got once a day. Not enough to be substantial, but enough to keep him alive.

To keep his heart beating, so they could stop it themselves. Slowly. Painfully.

Things went terribly sideways, and quicker than anyone could’ve predicated. Makarov was ready for them, and had prepared. No one really knew how, but none of it mattered to Simon.

Not now.

He made sure you got out. That was his only priority when everything went down. It just meant that he didn’t get so lucky. He didn’t mind, though, because he would’ve done anything to keep you from experiencing this; even if it meant taking your place.

His arms and legs were strapped tightly to the cold and hard metal arms of a chair, positioned in the centre of the concrete room. His head hung low, with no energy to hold it up. The pain never stopped or ebbed. It was just a constant agony that threatened to consume him each hour and day he was stuck there.

The drip, drip, drip, of his blood on the floor below him was grounding in a way.

Every person he saw wasn’t there for a simple, innocent chat. They all had that same uncaring, cruel, soulless look in their eyes right before their fists met his face, or their knives bit into his skin.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, when he heard gunshots and shouts throughout the building, loud enough that they penetrated the thick walls of the cell he was in.

He hoped and prayed that whoever it was would shoot him too.

Simon heard the door to his cell get blasted open, momentarily stunning him. Smoke billowed into the room.

And then your face was in front of him, and your mouth formed words he couldn’t hear. He tried to speak back, but all he managed was a strangled, “{{user}}..."