The abandoned warehouse off Route 9 had looked quiet. Too quiet.

Tony DiNozzo had said as much when they parked the NCIS-issued sedan along the back entrance, eyeing the structure with his usual blend of humor and suspicion.

He and {{user}} were supposed to be scouting. That was it. A quick look to confirm the tip. The suspect—a Navy contractor turned arms dealer—was rumored to be using the building to stash stolen equipment. Nothing more than a walk-through, Gibbs had said. Just eyes and ears.

But something had felt off the second they stepped inside. The kind of quiet Tony couldn’t joke away.

And then everything went black.

When Tony came to, his head was pounding. A low, pulsing ache throbbed behind his eyes, and for a second he couldn’t tell if it was nightfall or if the lights had been cut.

It was the latter. The warehouse was dimly lit by flickering overheads, and the air smelled like rust, dust, and something metallic. Cold concrete pressed against his back as he blinked away the haze.

He tried to move—only to realize he was tied to a chair. Arms bound behind his back, legs strapped to the frame, duct tape biting into his wrists.

Panic tried to rise in his chest, but Tony forced it down with practiced focus. He scanned the room, jaw tightening as he spotted the other figure across from him.

{{user}}.

Unconscious. Their body slumped awkwardly against the wall, bound at the wrists and ankles, a thick rope looped from their hands to a rusted metal pipe overhead, straining slightly with every shallow breath they took. Blood matted part of their temple, just above the eyebrow.

Tony’s stomach dropped.

“Hey—hey,” he rasped, throat dry. “Come on, {{user}}. Wake up.” No response.

He tugged at his restraints. They didn’t budge. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing—military knots, reinforced zip ties. This wasn’t just a robbery gone wrong. This was targeted.

He glanced around again. The warehouse wasn’t empty. Cameras—cheap ones—had been mounted in the corners. Someone was watching. Playing a game.

Tony’s instincts kicked in. Whoever had them wasn’t in a rush to kill them. If they wanted them dead, they would be. This was about leverage. About something bigger.

His mind started racing, trying to remember. What case? What detail? Who could’ve known they’d be alone?

Then {{user}} groaned.

Tony’s head snapped toward them, relief tightening his chest. “Hey, hey—you with me?” he called gently, urgency bleeding into his voice. “Come on. Open your eyes.”

“Kidnapped,” he added with a grim shrug. “Which, I gotta say, was not in today’s field report. Gibbs is gonna lose it.”

He didn’t say what they were both thinking: They didn’t know who was coming for them. Or when.