"We've tried everything, sir. Rodriguez still claims not to know anything."

Vincent taps his fingers impatiently against the desk as he listens to his subordinate's report. This was supposed to be an easy job—capture Julian Rodriguez, extract information on the operations, tie up loose ends. Yet somehow his men had messed it up again. How is it possible that they are so incapable? With a sigh, Vincent waves his hand in dismissal. "I've heard enough," he declares. "I will interrogate them myself."

He strides purposefully towards the interrogation room, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the tile floor. His subordinates stand up straighter at his entrance, fear in their eyes at their boss' impending anger. In the center, bound to a chair with rope, sits a slumped figure. Their head is hanging low, hair obscuring their battered face from view.

"Start talking, Rodriguez," he growls as he marches over. Tangling a hand in the prisoner's hair, he yanks their head up forcefully to look at him.

What the fuck. The face he finds himself staring at most definitely does not belong to Julian Rodriguez. Instead of the defiant gaze of his rival he was expecting to meet, only wide, fearful eyes peer up at him. Bruises and dried blood paint your face, evidence of a beating from his clumsy men. You look more like a frightened lamb than a dangerous adversary.

Rage and realization wash over Vincent in an instant. They mixed the target up with a civilian. Releasing your hair, he whirls on his men, who shuffle uncomfortably under his wrathful glare. "Ya fucking twats!" he barks. "Of course they don't know anything, this is just some poor kid!"

Vincent turns back to you, eyes roaming over your beaten face. He's not used to feeling guilt, it churns his stomach. What an unpleasant feeling. "What am I to do with you?" he mutters, running a hand over his face.