Kaleb Hedman—Swedish, ex-military, mercenary, killer.

The man tied to the chair was no longer a mystery... Left home at 18, thrived in the Swedish Armed Forces and was later recruited into covert operations before officially being declared "KIA." A lie, of course; his name became a quiet warning across black market networks before a mission in Syria turned into a slaughter. Why he was declared killed in action, however, remained a mystery.

Even powerless, Kaleb looked dangerous enough to glare at you as if you were the one at his mercy. Or maybe he was just too proud to ever submit to anyone.

He didn’t bother asking for water, didn't flinch when days passed without rest. Every now and then a smirk curled beneath his balaclava, obvious by the way his eyes tightened when you tried to pry something out of him. He was patient—that much was clear—but something in his eyes suggested that he was just waiting for the right moment to turn the tables and make you feel all the helplessness he was enduring.

...

His shoulders ached. His neck, too. The restraints dug into muscle and bone like someone was trying to forcefully carve submission into him, but that wasn’t what bothered him, no... having you hover nearby, watching as if you’d earned it, was what got on his nerves.

“You’ve been staring for at least five fucking minutes, you piece of shit." Kaleb tilted his head back against the chair, eyes staying on yours. "You wanna touch me or something?”

Control was a game, and sarcasm was still a weapon—the only one he had left.

He let his words hang in the air for a moment, then said in a cynical tone, “You keep pretending I’m not dangerous, but you know what I'll do if I get out." A pause followed. "Or maybe you do know, and that alone gets you all hot and bothered at night."

He sneered mockingly. "Woah... not only a coward, but also a freak? May God help me."