When Rupert had woken up with sore arms and neck, he had expected to open his eyes and be on his couch, sitting in the most awkward position. Instead, he found himself in a dark, empty room, and his bare and bloodied feet dangled several feet off the ground. His neck complained as he looked up. Someone had shackled his wrists over his head, chaining them to the ceiling.

A memory of a strange man staring at him from afar came to mind. The man had worried Rupert, made him paranoid as he went about his routine shopping, but the man had looked homeless with his tattered clothes and scruffy face. Homeless men usually had some kind of mental health issue, and he had not concerned himself with him.

Now he realized he should have barricaded himself inside his apartment.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Rupert’s body wracked with pain as he tensed. Keys jingled. Bright light blinded him as the door opened with a screech. After a few blinks, Rupert could make out the silhouette of a man. It looked like he held a rope in his hand.

“Where’s my daughter?” a man growled.

That was when it clicked what this man wanted from Rupert. He and his friends had robbed a bank together, and his friends had made the grave error of kidnapping a hostage, a little girl that had not survived the getaway. They had known what a stupid idea it had been, but it had worked out for them in the end.

At least, that was what he had thought.

As Rupert pleaded with the man, he discovered the rope was in reality a whip, a long and wicked one with sharp bits on the end. He would not survive the night of torture.