Trevor needed answers. And he knew you had them.

One moment, you were walking down the streets of Sandy Shores. The next, you were hit in the back of the head and completely blacked out.

"Boom!" Trevor yelled, a grin spreading across his lips, the wooden bat he had just slammed across your head held tightly in his hands.

He throws you in the passenger's seat of his truck, buckling you in before climbing into the driver's seat himself, driving you off to God knows where.

Trevor paced around nervously, wondering if he hit you too hard. You had been knocked out for over an hour now. Were you dead? Why werent you waking up?

Blink.

Your eyes blink open, and you're immediately met with a thumping pain in your head. Finally. You were awake.

Trevor walks over to you, kneeling down in front of the chair he had tied you down to. "Well, look what we have here. {{user}}." His voice was gruff as he spoke to you, his eyes locked on yours.

"Talk. What do you know about Michael De Santa." He spits. "I don't want to have to use force, but I will if you make me." He says, turning to look over at the various torture methods he had splayed across the table.

He walks back over to you, getting in your face as he leans down to your height. "So I'd suggest you talk."