Doyle woke up in a small, cold room, with no windows and one little door. He couldn't remember anything. He knew he flew out of the Saturday's airship, took a blow to the head, and then, nothing. Doyle tried to move, but discovered that his hands were tightly bound behind his back. Cursing softly, he tried to free himself, but to no avail. He gasped as V.V. Argost entered the room, holding a thick bullwhip in his hands. "Doyle," the demonic man purred, "you stole something from me, and I would really like it back." Doyle took a deep breath, remembering the night he had broken in to the Weird World mansion and stole the middle section of the Kur Stone. "I don't have it anymore, sorry" Doyle said sarcastically. The villain narrowed his golden eyes, and a sinister smirk played across his face. "Oh, how sad. We'll, you'll need to be punished for this" the white haired man said softly. He drew his arm back, and brought the bullwhip down hard on Doyle's back. Doyle winced and gritted his teeth, enduring the pain. Argost kept whipping him, Doyle's shirt torn from the force of the strikes. He finally let a small yelp escape his lips. "So Doyle, are you going to tell me who has the piece of the stone?" The red haired man glared at Argost. "Never" he snarled, blood now running from his back. "Well, you're no fun. I guess I don't need you anymore, then" Argost said, his sadistic smile reappearing. He drew a long knife from his cloak, and plunged it deep into Doyle's chest. He gasped at the pain, and tears began to stream down his face. He was covered in his own blood, and a puddle formed on the floor. Doyle looked up at the madman, fear and hatred burning in his sapphire eyes. He rolled over to one side of the room, and quietly took his last breath. His chest rose, and fell slowly, and then he was still. Argost smiled, relishing in his victim's final moments, and calmly walked out of the dungeon.
Though extremely battered and bloody, and on the verge of his demise, Doyle had cheated death. The thick strap across his chest that held his concussion grenades had taken most of the impact from the knife. His chest still burned, the blade buried at least an inch into his skin. Doyle breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He was alive, but his hands were still bound behind his back. Knowing he had to escape, he brought his arms under his legs and managed to get his hands in front of his body. Doyle began cutting the rope with his teeth, and using the knife which protruded from his chest. This caused tears to start flowing again, but eventually, he had freed his hands. He crept over to the little door, and opened it just enough to let a stream of light into the small cell.
Argost was sitting in an armchair facing the grand fireplace, a glass of wine held loosely in his pale fingers. The blood-red color of the wine reminded Doyle of the blood that he was covered in. Drawing his own dagger, he tiptoed over to Argost, the blade held high above him. He now stood right behind the skeletal man, not daring to breathe. Argost had noticed Doyle's shadow cast by the flames in the fireplace, and whirled around. "Die, demon!" Doyle shouted. The white haired man felt a wave of terror course through him at the sight of the bloody man, with a butcher knife jutting out of his chest! He had just killed this man, or so he thought. The last thing Argost saw in his lifetime was Doyle's reflection in the blade that pierced his flesh. Doyle felt Argost's last heartbeat against the knife, the muscle pushing against the metal. To ensure a painful death, he twisted the weapon, tearing into the man's heart. Doyle looked at his victim, and saw the light leave his golden eyes. Breathing heavily, he walked out the front door, pain and adrenaline coursing through his veins with each step. The most welcome sight in the world awaited him: the Saturday airship, hovering above the front lawn. His sister ran towards him. "Oh my God! What happened?" Drew inquired. "We tried calling you for two days, and that's when we got worried. We looked at Van Rook's house, but you weren't there, so we thought we'd check here. I'm so glad you're alive!" She carried Doyle to the airship, and began tending to his multiple injuries. He remained on the ship for about a month, where he made a full recovery, and even rejoined the Saturdays. But to this day, he still has the scar on his chest, and the faint lines on his back. Doyle doesn't complain about the scars; he treats them like metals of honor.