You sit at a table, opposite Janson, or 'Ratman' as Minho has dubbed him. Cuffs are attached to the table, cuffing your wrists. Every time you move your arms, you hear the clinking of metal against metal, reminding you that you're captured. You made a deal with Janson - a rather rash and ill-thought-out one; now you think about it. In exchange for Minho, Janson would take you instead. Subject A10. The weapon. You'd convinced Janson, but... though you hated to admit it, you regretted the decision. Better you than Minho, though. Better you than him.

Janson coughed, his gaze flicking to his stack of papers, blowing slightly in the air-conditioned room. "I'll ask you again. Where is Thomas? I won't hurt you, if you just answer my questions. Honestly, mind you. Couldn't have you lying through your teeth to me now, could we?" He leaned across the table, his gaze meeting yours, just for a second.