His body was aching all over. He hadn't eaten anything or had any sleep in almost twenty hours (unless you could call a state of unconsciousness "sleep") and his muscles were heavy and sore. His fingers were numb and he was certain that at least one of his ribs was broken, so if he moved or even breathed his body would protest in pain.

This was not good.

He groaned in pain as he tilted his head back. The blue silk tie he had chosen that morning – or, rather, yesterday morning – bound his wrists together above his head and kept them tied to the hook protruding from the wall. The dark blue fabric was now stained with red blotches where he had rubbed his wrists raw trying to free them from the binding. Still, he kept yanking, ignoring the pain, in hopes that with one final tug he would be free.

His face was bruised, he knew. He could feel his left eye swelling from the blows he had received and he could feel a trickle of blood running down his chin from his nose, staining his white shirt. In fact, the blood had begun to dry, clogging his left nostril. That, along with the duct tape that had been placed over his mouth, was making it difficult to breath. He took deep, carefully calculated breaths, telling himself to remain calm before he suffocated himself.

You will be okay, he assured himself in the most confident tone he could manage. It was the tone he saved for others when they were frightened and he wanted to comfort them, even if their situation looked completely hopeless. Now that he was on the receiving end of the supposed comforting, he found that it really wasn't very helpful. In fact, it made him feel more hopeless than ever.

He could hear them in the other area, though he couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. He knew whatever they were discussing involved him. He strained to hear, hoping for some hint of what was to come, but it was all garbled and hushed.

He looked back up at his hands bound above him. He yanked frantically, each yank accompanied by a frustrated grunt. After one particularly harsh yank he fell back against the back of his chair, breathing heavily. The movements had been strenuous on his already weakening body and he needed to rest. He needed to rethink the situation.

It was cold. Freezing. His shirt was light and gave very little warmth. There were a couple of windows, but they were covered with dirt and grim so he couldn't be sure what time it was, though he figured it was getting late. Did anyone know yet that he was gone? Were they looking for him? Or were they simply going about their business, unaware that their friend and colleague was bound and hurt?

He heard footsteps from the other area and his movements froze as they grew closer to him. He didn't even glance over as another person appeared beside him. He kept his eyes looking straight ahead, not wanting the person to see the pain and fear in his eyes. The cool blade of a knife was harshly pressed against his cheek. To his credit, though, he didn't flinch. Instead, he scornfully looked up at his captor, wishing that looks could actually kill.

His captor just grinned. "Now then, Agent McGee, are you ready to try this again?"

AN: This is already finished. I'll be posting a chapter per day.