Gibbs knew the second they entered the old machine shop that something was wrong.

Too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes from abandonment, but the kind that’s intentional. The kind you feel in your spine before it ever hits your ears.

{{user}} was just a few steps ahead of him, flashlight cutting through the darkness. They moved with the same silent awareness he’d trained into every agent who lasted more than a month on his team. Sharp. Alert. Trusted.

They were following up on a lead—a shipment of stolen Navy surveillance tech that had supposedly passed through this property outside Norfolk. A simple check. No tactical team. No backup.

Because sometimes, Gibbs preferred to see with his own eyes. That was his mistake.

The blow came fast. Precise. Behind the ear. Gibbs collapsed without a word.

When he came to, his first instinct wasn’t panic—it was assessment. Eyes flicked open. Muscles tense. Breathing steady. Head—throbbing. Blood—dried on his temple.

He was on his knees, arms lashed behind his back, ankles tied. The room around him was narrow, concrete, damp. A basement of some kind. Cold.

His gaze shifted immediately to the corner.

{{user}}, chained wrists from a rusty pipe, head slumped forward. Still breathing. Still alive.

Gibbs exhaled slowly. Relief, muted by fury.

He scanned the space. No cameras. No sound. Just the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance and the low hum of an old fluorescent light.

He shifted his weight, testing the rope. Military-grade. Knots tight. He'd taught others how to tie them. Now, he'd have to remember how to undo them with barely any movement.

“Come on, {{user}},” he muttered under his breath. “Time to wake up.”

A groan. A twitch of fingers. Then {{user}} lifted their head, blinking groggily, disoriented.

Gibbs locked eyes with them. Not panicked. Not frantic. Grounded.

“You’re alright,” he said, voice low, even. “We’re gonna get out of here.”

He refocused. One thing at a time.

First: get free. Second: get {{user}} out. Third: burn whoever did this to the ground.

There was movement upstairs. A creak. A muffled voice. Gibbs went still. Whoever took them made one critical mistake.

They didn’t kill him when they had the chance.