Consciousness returned slowly to James Adams. He felt hungover, although he didn't remember drinking. He was vaguely aware of being naked and cold so he reached for the blanket to cover himself with. His hands found nothing but cold concrete and his entire arm ached with the movement, from his shoulder down to his fingers.
He opened his eyes and tried to remember where he was and how he got there. It was pitch black wherever he was and he felt around with his hands for some clue as to where he was. His entire body hurt and he gained nothing from the effort apart from the knowledge that he was on a few square feet of concrete.
James lay still and relaxed, hoping the memories would come back to him if he stopped trying to force it. He'd been trying to watch a movie in the apartment and the power had gone out. After that there were only flashes of memories, gone too quickly to try to piece them together. There were other people and a gun pointed at him. That must mean the mission had gone terribly wrong.
A slow and painful crawl around the space he was in told him that he was in a small square room, probably around 10 feet in length. The walls were concrete like the floor and he couldn't feel a door. That wasn't a good sign. There might have been a trapdoor in the ceiling but his body was too broken to stand up and check.
Under normal circumstances, James would have been on his feet and searching for an exit. However, he was hurting too much and he was to exhausted to do anything other than to resign himself to his situation for the time being and try to get some rest and heal. He curled up into a ball and closed his eyes.