The metal chair bit into Rosco's raw skin. Each ragged breath was a fresh wave of agony, courtesy of the electrode clamped to his ear. He hadn't broken, not yet. He wouldn't.

The goons were getting frustrated. One reached for the dial on a complicated-looking machine. Another jolt was coming. Rosco braced himself. But then, something sounded.

"What's that?", Another goon asked. This time, there was no mistaking it. A shattering of glass, followed by a distinct, metallic clang. Like a gun firing. Another crash, louder this time. Then a strangled yell, quickly cut short. A chaotic ballet of violence erupting on the floor above.

Rosco, despite the throbbing pain and the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, felt a slow, genuine grin spread across his battered face.

"That," he said, his voice a low and raspy, "that should be my wife."