He had been captured by a cult. Simon wasn’t sure why, or how (although the throbbing pain in the back of his head gave him some idea of how), but he knew he was in a basement of some sort, and that he was tied to some sort of metal rings embedded in the walls that kept him secured. It was dark in this basement. Pitch black, in fact. And it smelled… not so great, let’s say. Smoke, blood, rotting meat, and the odd whiff of vanilla on occasion.

But the darkness in the basement was suddenly lit up as someone opened the door to the basement and came down the stairs, holding a lantern, a knife, some alcohol and a pack of cotton rounds. “Who are you??” He demanded immediately, voice raspy from having not drank anything since he’s been down here, and who knows how long that was.