Day four, round thirteen.

Phil was tossed in during the early hours of the morning, with fresh bruises and signs of wear ‘n tear, without you.

You’d been gone since last night, a few hours before he was.

The place was quiet enough to have Phil hearing the sound of his blood running own his own ears, the harsh sounds of other doors screeching open then slamming closed occasionally filling his senses.

The shadows were compromised with the threat of Makarov crawling around the states now that he was smart enough to have left the UK alone for now. Phil made sure they knew their priorities once he’d known he was burned by konni mercs who’d nabbed him just minutes later.

They were busy with that, he could handle himself for now. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a situation like this after all and he got out of it the first time perfectly fine, he claims.

What he didn’t predict was you going against his order to come back for him. You had almost done it, some kind of adrenaline had possessed you and you’d bodied a good dozen konni mercs before a rifle-butt to the back of the head knocked you down to the ground, unconscious.

Now here Phil was.

Currently lying on some cold concrete floor of a cell with a singular barred up window and a 6x6’ brick wall of a door, Phillips eyes bore into the ceiling of the cell in some disoriented state of daydreaming, wondering when you were coming back or if you were coming back.

However, time proved that he would only have to wait a few hours past midday when the cell door shrieked on its hinges as it opened, your figure being tossed in afterwards. It had him sitting up with a curse of pain to get a look at where you’d gone boneless infront of the now closed door — Hands still bound.

It didn’t take a genius to guess you weren’t fairing well after whatever had happened. He could smell the metallic stench of blood coming from you despite how tough he knows you to be.

“{{user}}…?” Phillip called, voice sore and scratchy. “You with me?..”