It’s dark, he’s afraid, it hurts, and he’s still not fully in control of his body.

Unsettled and confused, Will pushes himself backward along the floor until he hits a wall. His limbs shaking as he scrambles, the muscles weak but cooperating.

Chains cling and rustle, a long link connected to the heavy pressure of a cuff on his left ankle. The silver twinkling barely in the low light.

The room around him smells metallic and damp and feels cold under his skin.

“This is doing wonders for my fear of the dark.” He tries to joke to himself quietly, to make himself feel anything other than fear, or a looming disfigured sense of dread pooling in his stomach.

The dark is scary, it’s lonely, and it’s full of memories he wants to keep buried.

Will breathes heavily in and out, a brick is in his stomach, and it keeps him from calming down. It weighs him down and makes him nauseous.

Shaky breaths fall from his slightly parted mouth. Jaw almost locked, collecting saliva under the ache on each side of it.

William throws his head back up, to ease his nerves, and breathes in through his nose, forcing his eyes closed against the burning behind them. Pulling his legs up to his chest, he squeezes them together, running his hands over them in a soothing action.

Hard and heavy steps echo into the room from the open hallway. Devoid of any door, just a pitch black hallway.

As the steps get closer, Will scoots himself to the left, the corner seeming safer than being directly within view. Ceasing his soothing motions in favor of pretending to be a statue in the corner, he keeps his eyes on the hallway.

Why is he here? What did he do to be kidnapped? Questions he would love to know the answer to, as what’s surely a murderer walks ominously through the hallway leading into the very room where Will is chained.

Cutting his delirious inner monologue short, a black clad figure walks into the concrete room. Dressed in boots, cargo pants, and a t-shirt. Head covered mostly by a black face mask and a baseball hat.

Despite this, it’s not hard for the masked murderer to be a dead ringer for Oakley’s father. The same grey hair and blue eyes stared back, piercing William.

Huge black duffel bag dropping unceremoniously on the floor.

Will winces at the sound it makes as it hits the floor. Heavy clangs and a large and heavy thud ring out. The tall man leans down, slowly, unzipping the bag.

Heavy and large–Alarm bells slam into his skull as a cold shiver goes down his back, leaving sweat in its wake–a huge sledgehammer is slid out of his bag. The weight of it tipping on one side, as the murderer holds it around the very end of the handle.

It’s a quick thing, the full-body scramble he does when the figure walks up to him, with purpose. It’s an even quicker thing when his right leg is pulled from where it had braced against the ground.

Limb wrestled to lie flat on the floor. Will struggled against the hand, tugging his leg back towards him as hard as he could, using his strength to push the hand away.

The struggle amounted to nothing other than heavy Boots cutting off the circulation from his knee to his toes, as the rough sole ground on his leg.

Elicit groans fall out his mouth as his knee is crushed into the ground. He stops pushing, hands finding the chain and gripping it tight, bracing for whatever is about to happen.

It’s too soon, however, when the figure slams the sledgehammer down on Will’s Ankle.

The first time he can feel something break in his ankle. Angry red abraisions forming in real time.

The second time, he can feel something crack in his shin, the skin making way for the oozing blood vessels that burst, and pulled apart under the heavy handed impact.

The third time, tears roll down his cheek involuntarily, the blood splattering up in disturbing arks his brain can't keep up with.

The fourth time, crunching and cracking echoes as he breaks in two different places, he feels like he’s screaming. But that started a long time ago.

The final and fifth time, and he feels so close to passing out, twitching in agony, the gorey mess of his leg sears itself into the marrow of his narrowly surviving mind.

He wants to be stronger in this moment, but the only thing he can manage is screaming. Screaming until the only thing that comes out is silence.

Blood, seeping squishy muscle and glistening wet things that should stay inside squelch as the man digs his hand into the mess. The red trickling out as it’s played with no regard left for the cut off grunts and pained noises Will makes.

Will’s leg jerks where it’s pushed into the concrete, like a severed limb with no host. Tears had fallen, and still are.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” He asked, pathetically, his head dropping to the side, propping itself up on the wall to the left of him. Eyes desperately willing themselves to look away as the man prodded his leg, like it was an archeology stem toy.

Heavy breaths and pained whimpers pull from his mouth whether he wants them to or not.

The man chuckles, patting his knee as he releases the limb, scuff marks left behind along with a fractured and jolting pain where the hand met the broken knee.

“Wolf-dogs are constantly getting in my way; it’s only right, I get to take my anger out on them.” The father chuckles out. Like it’s the most normal thing he’s ever said. Casual and not rushed.

“You think you can be on the same level as pure wolves, same jobs, same schools… I think it’s stupid, why try to be smart when all you are, are puppies, shaking your tail for a treat or two, when you could be getting the treats yourself, so I gave you a warning.” He snickers.

“But you didn’t listen. Weak and soft. Completely incapable of hunting or fending for itself, it relies on other people to feed it.” At this point, Will started drowning out the completely baseless and biased drovel shoveling itself out of the looming figure's mouth.

Surprised he admitted to ordering those douches to fight him, but not willing to feed his ego and listen fully.

Unfortunately for him, the man doesn’t like that.

He can’t breathe, and sucking in is hard. It leaves a breathy whistle of an inhale and an exhale behind. Air leaving his lungs as it’s punched out of him repeatedly.

Knuckles cracking a rib and then coming back to his abdomen to bruise another. Each impact leaves him breathless, as he tries to block the blows, dazed limbs folding over him when they can get between the constant blows.

His ribs are definitely broken or fractured in a couple of places, and if the one hard punch that deviated to his stomach was anything to go by.

He can feel his stomach seize, and Will throws up over the floor, folding like a shrimp over it, one hand cradling his stomach and ribs as he heaves into the ground.

Broken bits throb in pain as he empties his stomach, saliva pooling where it connects on the edge of his mouth. In his fit, and between the pounding in his head, and the sound of his blood rushing in his ears.

He, nor the man, notice the slowly approaching police men.

Their steps were quiet, and motion kept slow through the hallway. One of his shaking hands was holding him upright until a punishing grip grabbed his hair. Yanking him slightly off the ground, where his legs were splayed, knees in different directions, as he gagged to not move the shattered one.

Anything other than shallow breaths hurts, so he tries to breathe as short as he can, while held a couple of inches above the ground. “You aren’t paying attention.” The man huffs at him, almost like a toddler upset his mom won’t look at him.

He half snorts before he can keep it in, wincing as the air leaves him, his lungs expanding into his ribs. “No, I was. Something–,” He sucks in a breath, hard-earned words used at a less than useful time, “about how you feel like wolf-dogs are inferior?” His previously sprained wrist coming up to pat the man’s shoulder.

He was being really dumb. His friends would say he always is. But blood loss does that to someone.

His hand is grabbed before he can pull it away, the sprained wrist squeezed as it’s pulled from the murderer's shoulder. A similar situation to how it got sprained in the first place, when he was kidnapped.

Odd out-of-place zapping sounds are heard throughout the room. The man’s grip on his wrist tightens. Pain blooming as it’s twisted.

The grip on his hair loosens, and he’s dropped to the floor. Landing on his butt, bruising his tailbone, and jostling his leg again. Blinking his eyes repeatedly through the pain and tears that still block his vision, he sees the man stumble and fall to the ground next to him.

Limp and a little twitchy, as he grits his teeth through some kind of angry exclamation related to him being caught.

Vision, dotting, blurry, and beginning to wobble from blood loss, more than any kind of drug left in him, he notices some of the cops rush over to him. Others rushed over to the racist heap next to him.

“We’re going to help you.” One of the cops spoke, a nice woman who bent down on one knee to inspect the chain around his leg.

At this point in the night, soft moonlight shone through a window, illuminating their surroundings, making every stain of blood on the walls clear, and the darkest patch of bruises on Will’s brown skin visible.

His white t-shirt was dirty, bloody, and smelled a bit of throw-up. His baggy shorts left his legs open to view.

The gory mess of one, he wouldn’t dare move if he didn’t want to scream. Another, still bound.

He nodded gently to the woman. “Thank you,” Will muttered softly to her, eyes noticing how she tried to keep his attention.

“Don’t thank me, thank your girlfriend when you get out.” The nice lady joked, likely trying to keep his mood up and his eyelids awake. Will, if not for his wounds, would be flabbergasted and blushing right about now.

As close to sputtering as a heavily injured teen could get, he denied it.

“E-Eve, no, she’s my best,”

Wheeze,

”best friend.”

Pointed serious looks from the nice lady aside, she quickly released the heavy cuff from his ankle before gingerly approaching his crumpled form.

“Can you– who am I kidding?” She cuts herself off, gently picking him up–Wow–and carrying him with one hand holding his bad leg’s thigh, and the other on his shoulder. She, with what seemed like ease, carried him out of the room.

On the walk out, he realized she had his backpack and jacket, as well as his uniform tucked under her arms. Trying to remind himself that he needs that for tomorrow, through his haze, he still worries about misplacing the thing and wasting the money it took to buy it.

Will grunts at the movement, but tries to cooperate as much as he can. Following behind them are two more officers, one with a camera, and the other a big dufflebag, the murderer, who’s also a father, had brought. Distantly, he thinks they're collecting evidence.

The no longer quiet steps echo over his thoughts, as eventually, he sees stairs that lead up. Each step squishes him a little, small winces following.

It’s a wonder how they found him when they're walking up stairs, around a bunch of hallways, through more doors, and more stairs.

“I’m sorry.” The officer gives him a curt apology after the repeated stairs leave him dizzy. Will’s not even the one walking up them, but he feels tired. Which is almost–definitely from different causes.

With each set of stairs, the surroundings get more and more normal-looking. “S’okay.” Will coughs out, his head leaning on the lady’s shoulder.

It’s quiet again, the only sounds a distant siren, mostly inaudible from the basement, and the chatter of tons of policemen strewn about every floor. Definitely inaudible from whatever room he was in.

“Are you safe now?” Somewhere along the way, a voice talks to him in his head.

Is he going crazy from blood loss? The voice is apprehensive and quiet, reminding him of the bond they made.

Not that he could ever forget it. But again, blood loss.

Eve’s voice is soothing, like she doesn’t want to make him upset. “Yes, a nice police lady’s carrying me somewhere,” Will responds, cringing at how dopey he sounds.

He must be getting loopy. He can feel the collective relieved sigh from Eve and the others who were trying to stay quiet. It’s kinda hard to do that when you can hear each other in your heads.

“Who’re you talking to, buddy?” The nice lady gives a glance down at him. Worry in her eyes.

“My pack.” He states simply, hoping that it eases her enough. It does, as she breathes out again.

Nodding her head in affirmation and focusing again on getting him out. Will must’ve said that out loud.

He starts to feel tired. Aching and sore, like he moved every muscle in his body too much, and now has to pay for it. His eyes swim, and he wants to close them.

“Stay awake, Liam, it’ll be over soon.” Oakley’s deeper voice tried to comfort him, a new term of endearment making itself known.

For what feels like the fifth time today, he’s blinking his eyes rapidly, blinking every time his eyelids seem to fall lower. It hurts so much, and he just wants to rest. It feels like an hour later, when he finally sees what looks like his school.

Both Will and the police officer appear out of a hatch in the floor, stairs having led up to a room containing the hatch. “My name’s Lilienne, by the way, not ‘nice lady’.” The lady–Lilienne, smiled down at him gently.

“Nice name.” He complemented her, nodding as minutely as he could in affirmation, or thought. “We’re almost there.” She chuckled her thanks, steps quicker, as she walked out of the room, down a couple of hallways, and then to the right. Finally greeted with the big front doors that take you outside to the front parking lot.

Fresh air hits his nostrils as he breathes as deeply as he can with what feels like a couple of broken ribs.

The cold air hits his legs and arms, chilling them, and calling attention to the warm blood that still trickled down his leg, leaving sticky streaks behind as it spills over wherever they had walked.

Shivering, he asks for his jacket. Lilienne sets him gently down on a bench, helping him put on the jacket when it pulls at his sprained wrist. Inciting a pained noise.

With a thankful half nod, he rubs his shoulder to get warm, using his good hand to create friction. From a couple of cars away, he can hear more police talking, the siren going.

One of the policemen stays next to him, as Lilienne, seeing how cold he is, goes to get a blanket and something warm for him. He wishes his ribs were normal, so he could say thank you properly, but a look and a dizzying nod are all he can manage.

Waiting patiently, he tries to distract himself from the shooting pain and overwhelming aches by twiddling his fingers, telling himself he’ll be fine. When he hears familiar voices call out to him.