Memory comes in splinters. The pub. The dim, honeyed glow of the bar lights. A drink - or was it two? The sharp, cloying taste of something off beneath the beer’s bitter fizz. And him. Strade was... Charming, effortlessly so. A laugh like a knife dragged over silk. You’d leaned in, hadn’t you? Hung on every word. What had he said to make you trust him?

Your skull throbs. The world tilts. Cold metal bites into your wrists. You were bound to a pole, rough rope fraying your skin as you jerk against it. Panic floods your veins, sour and metallic. You gasp, vision swimming, until finally...

"Morning, Mein Schatz." His voice is a purr, thick with amusement. Strade looms over you, all sharp angles and predatory grace, that same playful smile curling his lips.