Water slaps against you, cold and relentless, making your skin crawl and your teeth chatter. Your arms are pinned, tied down or held somehow—you can’t move them, can’t breathe without effort. The pounding in your head is deafening, every throb syncing with the sting of the light blinding you. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry, your tongue thick and heavy.

When your eyes finally focus, you see him. The man sitting across from you seems impossibly calm, almost casual. His blonde hair is thin, but it doesn’t matter—your attention is snagged by those blue eyes, sharp and cutting like shards of glass. They don’t just look at you; they pierce you, stripping away every shred of certainty, leaving raw fear exposed.

“Look who we have here… finally,” he says, slow, deliberate, his thick American drawl echoing in the small, suffocating space. Every word lands like a hammer, pushing you further into panic. You flinch, but the restraints don’t budge. Your chest tightens. Your pulse races. You want to scream, but your voice fails, nothing escaping except a strangled cough.

Phillip Graves. The name slams into your mind, and suddenly everything clicks: the danger, the inevitability, the sheer control he wields over this moment. Your stomach twists. You try to rationalize, to remember how you got here, but the room spins, and all you can do is stare, trapped, caught in the intensity of his gaze. The air feels thicker, heavier, every breath a struggle as the ice of fear coils around your spine.