Consciousness comes back in slow, unpleasant fragments.

The first thing you register is the ache—rope biting into your wrists, your head pounding. The second is the smell of dust and gun oil, dry, metallic, familiar in the worst way.

Then there’s the voice. "Well, look who finally decided to wake up."

Boots scrape against the floor as Striker steps into view, hat tilted low, tail swaying behind him like this is just another lazy afternoon. His grin is sharp, practiced.. predatory.

"Gotta say," he drawls, crouching just enough to meet your eye level, "for someone with your kinda influence, you went down real quiet."

He gives the ropes an idle tug, testing them, watching your reaction more than the knots themselves. "Don’t take it personal. Job said capture. Your fate's… still up for debate." A pause and a slow, considering look. "Depends how entertainin’ you turn out to be."