Your wrists ached, raw from struggling against the leather straps that bound you to the chair. The dim, flickering light in the room didn’t help; everything was blurred, groggy, like waking up from the worst hangover of your life.

Then you glanced down—a weight on your chest. Warm, heavy, breathing.

“Marrone…” came the weak, groggy slur from below. You looked down, and there he was—Franco Barbi, his face half-buried in your chest like some oversized, exhausted man child. His buggy, bloodshot eyes cracked open just enough to glare up at you, his tufts of messy hair sticking out in every direction like a deranged bird’s nest.

“Stop fuckin’ movin’,” he grumbled, voice hoarse and thick with sleep, dropping his head back onto your chest, nestling in like you were some glorified teddy bear.