Author's note: hey, merry Christmas everybody, although I'm kind of lame, since this is a rewriting I haven't adapted my chapter to the holiday :( hope you'll enjoy it anyway, remember comments are always appreciated.

CHAPTER 2

Sara was pulled from slumber by three loud and heavy knocks on the door, which were obviously meant to wake her. At first, she found it difficult to sleep in these situations – the kind where she was kidnapped and held hostage – but then, she must have either grown insensitive to it, or maybe just accustomed, because she slept as heavily as she did in the safety of her own apartment. She just called it 'adapting'.

The pounding continued, and she spoke, loud enough to be heard through the door. "I'm awake."

"Then go walk to the opposite side of the room and press yourself against the wall, hands above your head." The metallic door muffled the man's voice, but not beyond recognition – it was the younger brother. The one with the arrogant grin and angel eyes.

Sara sighed but didn't waste time before obeying, pressing her hands flat against the wall. "Done." She said. Then there was a short moment of silence, as if Michael was pondering whether she was honest or not. Amateurs. He could act as arrogant as he liked, nothing could fool her anymore – if she'd grown used to abductions, her own kidnappers certainly hadn't.

Finally, the door opened, as slowly as cautiously, and she twisted her neck towards the exit door, only to see him point a 9mm at her. She wasn't really intimidated by guns anymore; she was actually so used to them the image automatically came with the thought of an empty threat.

"All right," Michael said, his pistol aimed straight at her, as if he had just entered the cage of a tiger. "Now, I want you to slowly go sit on the bed."

"Why?"

The corner of his lips crooked into a smirk. "I want to get a clear shot at you."

She turned away slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Good," he said, visibly satisfied as he put the gun away.

She couldn't help but smile, as some sort of inward knowing victory. Empty threat.

The older brother didn't waste anytime before joining Scofield inside the room. His own fire weapon was hanging from his belt, obviously there for her to see. "All right, Miss Krantz," Lincoln said, "here's what I'm going to do." He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, made a whole show out of it too. "I'm going to dial your father's number, and then I'll put the phone to your ear. That's the part where we'll need your cooperation."

"Okay," she commented, unable to hold back a smile. "Well, first of all you don't have to hold the cell to my ear, I know how to telephone, and second of all, regardless of how much I would love to play the little girl lost in the woods act to my father, I doubt that it would be really useful."

"Yeah," Michael said, "well you know, as much as you don't want to believe it, Sara, I think your father loves you, and I think he's going to give us just what we want. Any father would."

"And unfortunately for you," she replied, "he's not any father. What is it you want from him?"

"We're not going to tell you that," Lincoln spoke hurriedly, almost insulted.

"Okay." She said, agreeably. "All I'm saying is that unless you're asking for a reasonable amount of money, he won't give you a thing, and that's only because money doesn't really matter to him, so if you want anything else, I rather warn you that he might be reluctant."

"Well," Lincoln considered, "there's a chance that the sound of his daughter screaming from pain will change his mind."

Again, she thought, empty threat.

"Well, that's a good idea," she replied annoyed, "why don't you ask that to the ones who already tried?"

Burrows waited a moment before visibly deciding that he wouldn't answer that. His brother continued instead. "Well, Miss Krantz," Michael said, "it's not that we're not interested in your opinion, but we'll still be making the phone call. And I need to know you'll cooperate."

She sighed, as though plainly annoyed by this whole thing. "Sure. Just don't make me put on the 'I love you daddy' act. He won't buy it and I hate to fake."

"All you have to do is say something," Lincoln muttered in a tone that probably aimed to sound authoritarian, then he put his phone on speaker after quickly dialing a number, and handed it to Sara.

She recognized her father's voice immediately, not completely startled by the fact that it made her sick to her stomach. "Burrows, you're really getting desperate."

"Yeah," Sara confirmed coldly, "he has."

She heard her father sigh in the receiver, a bit as though this whole situation had gotten so familiar to both of them that he was now more tired than concerned. "Sara," he said, "put whoever's holding a gun to your head on the phone."

She couldn't help but snort in irritation. "Like I'm taking orders from you."

"Give me the phone, Sara." Michael interrupted, and the young woman sighed before complying.

Jonathan Krantz's tone hadn't changed one bit. "I don't know if you think you have me trapped here, Scofield." Her father was now addressing to the younger brother, but Sara could still follow the conversation. He went on, almost casual. "If you're hoping you've put your hand on the key to your freedom, I hate to disappoint you, she won't get you anywhere. She doesn't know anything."

"I don't need her to," Michael spoke confidently, "I'd rather see you turn yourself in, give the police the evidence that proves you've framed my brother, so that you can rot in prison and my brother and I can both walk free. Because if that isn't done by the end of the week, seven days from now exactly, I'm going to kill your daughter"

Sara stared at the two brothers, halfway between startle and weariness; well then, she supposed she was as good as dead. There wasn't a thing in this world for what her father would be able to give up in freedom; and if there ever was, it certainly wouldn't be her.

She heard the old man sigh – almost as weary as her. "Somehow, Scofield, I don't think you're going to do that."

"Think again," Michael retorted, without anger but serious enough. "So many people have died under your orders, friends, family, children," he enumerated before marking a short pause, probably to mark the impact of his following words. "Why would your daughter's life be worth to me any more than theirs?"

A short silence settled in, and for a second, Sara noticed that it made the air seem chillier, as though everyone in the room was unconsciously holding their breath – everyone but her. She'd done this dance before, she knew how it went, how it ended; and it wasn't until her father spoke again that she actually realized, she'd hoped. "All right," he ultimately said. "I'm calling your bluff."

"Excuse me?"

"Kill her." He spoke with no other emotion than faint boredom. "Trust me, Scofield, I would fear for my daughter's life if I believed she was in the hands of professionals, not a decent ex-citizen and engineer who faked his way into prison, and a falsely coldhearted thug who didn't even have the nerves to pull the trigger on someone he believed to be a scumbag drug dealer. No, I must admit, I'm not particularly concerned for Sara at the moment."

The older brother – Burrows, Sara recalled obliviously – scowled with the subtleness of an upset bulldog. Anger and irritation crept into his voice as came another threat – another empty threat, Sara had never been more sure of it than now. "Keep going like this, General. Just keep it going like this and she'll go through so much pain she'll beg to die."

The reply came right away. "Now, that's very intimidating, Lincoln. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, perhaps had you practiced for this? Seriously now, do you not think I know my own daughter? I built her tougher than that. I raised her better than that. I believe that she'll be able to stand whatever it is you have in store for her."

Neither of the brothers replied for a short moment, and Sara rolled her eyes with irritation; she personally would have preferred for wolves to raise her, at least they might have shown a bit of loyalty – but as much as she hated her father at that moment, she hated even more this tiny bit of hope that had crawled deep inside of her, down to the last second. She knew how this went. She knew it very well. The only thing that remained a mystery to her was: how many years until she stopped inwardly and traitorously hoping that she'd make her father change his mind?

The General went on, and his voice was making Sara nauseous again. "So, if I haven't made things clear enough, let me start over. I suggest that you set my daughter free right now, because I won't give you anything for her. Or, you can follow your plan and hold her hostage for a week before you kill her. You can call me soulless," he added, "I'm calling your bluff."

Michael dragged in a deep breath, visibly furious. "Do not underestimate me, Jonathan. I'll go as far as I need to go to make you pay for your crimes, one way or another."

"Don't make it sound like I'm questioning your honor, Scofield. I don't doubt that you're an admirable young man." Except there was an unspoken following to that sentence, Sara could read it clear as water through the silence. 'An admirable young man who wouldn't sacrifice a puppy for the greater good if he had to end the animal's life himself.'

The younger brother clenched his teeth before stating. "You'll regret this."

The General didn't answer. "Send Sara my love," he simply said before ending the conversation.

The brothers remained immobile long after silence had fallen upon the room. Sara didn't move either, only her thoughts were occupied by a different matter than theirs – because the thing about her father was, he did get her out of similar situations. Sometimes. But he only did so when he considered she couldn't get out of it herself, which she had; each time he left her the courtesy of saving her own life, she always managed, as he knew she would. Because to be honest with herself, and it was perhaps the most twisted side of their relationship, he actually loved her; in the way he conceived love. He could leave her to be tortured for days, weeks, and still believe that he was making the right decision because she would make it out alive – after all, she had never proved him wrong before. If she ever did though, she thought bitterly, it would only take once. And she would love it; part of her knew that too. She would love for him to leave her helpless one time too much and for it to be lethal – she wouldn't be there to enjoy his reaction, but she assumed she might die happy to the single thought of it.

The thought of Jonathan Krantz being proven wrong.

The point was, this was always a determining moment for Sara; because from this moment on, she knew whether she'd have to fool Burrows and Scofield in order to escape or simply wait for rescue – from this moment on, she knew what the plan would be. Because her father still cared, and always would; therefore if he had left her in this mess, it meant that she could get out of it.

...

Michael and Lincoln had left to discuss things she probably wasn't allowed to hear; for example, the fact that neither of them knew what they were doing.

Though now, after all this time, her father's actions were becoming quite clear; everything he did, everything he let others do to her – if his design was once ever so slightly obscure, it was getting impossible not to see it, now. And he wanted her to see it; it was part of the plan.

It was punishment.

Everything that her father had ever let her go through, the beating, the extreme situations, when he held the key to her freedom; when all he'd have to do was make a call for her abductors to let her go – punishment. Punishment for running away, seven years ago, punishment because as soon as she had realized who he really was, what he did, and what was going on inside that company, she had run. Away from all of it, away from everything she'd ever known.

And beneath her hatred and how cold it had made her, part of her wished she hadn't. Part of her wished she never saw what she'd seen that night, part of her wanted to take it all away; to go back. To go back to HIM. She knew HE would have an explanation, HE would have an excuse and HE would make her believe. And sometimes, when the loneliness got too bad, when the locket around her neck seemed to be too heavy to bear, she almost wished he would.

Sara's hand automatically flew to her necklace – it had become some sort of reflex, really; to reach out to it during the hard times, when it felt like her world was crumbling down. She figured maybe it gave her strength; courage. Or maybe, in some way, she still blindly believed in its promise.

Bittersweet memories, the locket and the promise that accompanied it; it was all she had taken with her, when she'd left. It was planned, she knew it; HE was planned, she knew that too, because it was the only thing that made sense – and still, she couldn't help but think that maybe, if once HE had just come knocking on her door and begged for her forgiveness… She would have made the same mistakes all over again.

And HE was the reason why she could never forgive her father; she had many reasons to hate Jonathan Krantz, but HE was the greatest one. Because her father had made her fall in love with a man that didn't exist. And seven years after, seven long years of living half alive, and she still reached out to his promise when she was sad, or scared; that was the reason why she would never forgive. Because after all this time, she realized that she still needed HIM, and probably always would. As if somehow, this promise had been HIS way of telling her that it had all been real, that no matter what would happen later on, it had been real for HIM too. HIS way of telling her that, no matter what, she was never alone.

She was sad, hurt, lost – oh, so lost since he'd gone – but she wasn't alone.

Never.

The heavy metallic door opened again, without warning this time, and the younger brother – Michael – entered, alone.

"What?" Sara said, a hint sarcastic. "You're going to send him a finger?"

She scolded herself in her mind; why was she giving them tips? She mentally slapped herself though Michael didn't comment. He simply sat on the bed, next to her, and for a reason she was absolutely incapable of defining, his proximity didn't feel intruding or even surprising. Cautious nonetheless, the young women detailed him for a short while, but he didn't seem to be carrying a gun or even any sort of weapon; almost as though they were oddly standing equal to equal.

"Well," he exhaled calmly, "we have a problem, Miss Krantz."

She let out a chuckle, entirely humorless, and she kept her eyes fixedly set on the wall. It was easier that way; her abductors, whether they were polite or despising, hesitating or ruthless, it didn't make a difference – she never looked them in the eye.

She responded dryly. "If you're going to call me that, am I to call you Mr. Scofield? Or master?"

The last part of her sentence was meant to be sarcastic, but Michael hardly seemed in the mood for jokes; yet instead of losing his patience, he simply sighed once more in irritation, as though to show he wasn't happy to be doing this on her terms – but complying nonetheless. "Fine, Sara." He consented, insisting on her name. "We're in a bit of a predicament."

"Not exactly." She disagreed. "You're in a bit of a predicament, I'm simply leverage."

"Maybe. But I'm getting the feeling you're not your father's biggest fan." He didn't need to be a genius to know that, still he stirred a bit of her attention. "I was hoping you and I could make a deal."

She clenched her jaw, put ice in her voice. "When people want my help, they don't usually kidnap me." It was a lie.

His annoyance was audible when he answered. "I'm sorry," he stated still, and. "I didn't have much of a choice."

"Asking politely works pretty good."

Impatience finally pierced through the young man's placidity, Sara noticed – he burst, didn't snap. "Well, I thought it would be easier than this. I thought all I'd have to do is mention you, and your father would plead and do anything we said."

Sara couldn't repress a slight burst of laughter, as though unable to resist the urge to mock one's particular naivety. "I'm sorry, have you met him? Did you actually expect him to be the hugging fatherly type."

"Then what type is he?"

"Why do you care?" She retorted on the same tone, as though to rise to the challenge – maybe just to scratch through the surface of his golden boy attitude.

"Look," he spoke without an ounce of amusement. "I –" He opened his mouth with what seemed to be the greatest will in the word to talk, yet his capacity of speech seemed to momentarily fail him, and nothing came out.

He wasn't particularly happy about this; in fact, he wasn't happy about any of this. First, because he didn't know what to add but liked to have the last word, and second, because absolutely nothing in this whole thing had gone according to plan. And Michael Scofield was the kind of man who liked for things to go smoothly, without surprises; that's who he was, and what his brother had often called him, as a joke. The man with a plan.

But he hadn't planned on Jonathan Krantz almost literally sneering to their faces; he hadn't planned on finding himself stuck in a rented warehouse with his panicking brother and a female hostage. To be completely honest, he hadn't planned said hostage to be the way she was either – perhaps, it troubled him as much as the rest. Michael wasn't aware he'd even thought of the way she'd be at all, until after he met her; he wasn't completely sure of what he was expecting either. A damsel in distress, maybe? She was turning out to be anything but.

He sighed and went on, a little calmer. "Look, I don't have that many options here. What I'm doing right now, this here – it's my last option."

She shrugged, visibly still in the not-my-problem attitude. "You could still kill me at the end of the week."

"That won't bring me my freedom back."

Sara smirked, almost unconsciously as she said. "At least he would have been wrong."

"Your father?" Michael prompted, but she kept quiet and he went on. "Do you often picture it? Getting killed because of him?"

"Would that be so wrong?" She wondered, and looked him in the eyes for the first time since he had sat next to her. "To imagine him leaving me to rot in one of these places, as he did thousands of times, for him to think that I'd manage out but being –" She pondered on the word shortly. "Undeceived?" Proven wrong.

She had thought of it more than once, actually; that, one day, her father would leave her to be tortured to death. That he'd regret it for the rest of his life. She wanted him to feel like he would never laugh or smile again, to feel like the best years of his life had gone by, she wanted him to feel betrayed and cheated, as she had felt once. Seven years ago. Then the question popped in, inevitable – how would HE feel if she died?

"I understand," Michael finally spoke. "Frankly, I think it happens to everyone, every once in a while. To picture our own funeral. All the people who've done you wrong regret it, feel the guilt and the shame, and those who cared about you wish they had said it, too late." He paused for a second. "I can understand that you might have thought of it more than the average."

Sara lowered her eyes, as though realizing that they'd been set on his for too long – she knew what he was doing. Talking, trying to relate to her – she wasn't sure in what purpose yet exactly, but she'd figured reluctance was the safest way to greet it. "Yeah," she spoke, neither cold or dry but somehow restraining. "Well, after giving it more thought I decided that if he was going to be in my life whether I liked it or not, it'd be a bit stupid to make my death about him too."

Michael nodded in comprehension – he understood. Understood that she wasn't going to let him any closer to her than that, emotionally speaking. "Okay," he spoke agreeably, "I'll just say this. I want my freedom back more than anything in the world, but not if it's going to make me undeserving of that freedom. Your father knows that, and that's why he knows that I won't hurt you." He waited a second, as though slightly hesitating, Sara noticed; almost the way a man tries to flirt with you, but isn't quite sure of how to explicitly demonstrate his intentions. "But there is another way for us to do this, Sara."

She cleared her throat and exhaled. "I'm not sure why you've started using the word 'we', but I have a feeling I'm not going to like it too much."

"He could pay." Michael said, and noted the impact of his words on the young woman's face; she could act as cold and indifferent as she wanted, he decided as he observed – she couldn't lie with her eyes. He went on. "Your father could pay for everything he's done, he doesn't need to surrender, we can get the evidence ourselves."

"What evidence?" She spoke, annoyed. "You seem to forget the fact that I don't know anything about my father's business. Actually, until this morning, I thought your brother was guilty."

Michael couldn't help but sound a bit upset. "Well, he isn't. Look, I need you to work with me on this. There's something, an evidence that could prove your father's guilt, it could expose every single one of his crimes. It's a device called Scylla; it's in his possession at the moment, but if we could it back, then this could all be over." He repeated, speaking slowly and low. "We don't need him to surrender, Sara. All we need to do is get that device and get this over with."

"And yet I fail to see how I'm a part of that."

"Well," Michael snorted, "obviously he won't let just anyone near it, but you – you're not just anyone to him, Sara, you never will be regardless of how much effort you put into it. You could earn his trust, you could –"

"It's never going to happen." She stated without looking at him again.

The seriousness and determination in her tone made him silently for a few seconds; he blinked a couple of times before he managed. "Why not? You hate your father, why won't you work with us –"

She snapped. "Because I'm not a little pawn you can all throw at each other hoping the bomb sets off. I'm not involved in anything bad or criminal, I'm not linked to any of this by anything other than blood, and I'm tired of being used and mistreated for crimes I didn't commit." She let out a slow breath, ragged by anger. "Why won't you all stop involving me in plans that I'm not a part of?"

Almost as if her words had set him on fire, the young man got up brutally; she hadn't planned on how angry he'd be. His tone didn't hide a bit of his frustration. "Very well, Miss Krantz. Suit yourself."

He didn't even turn around before he shut the heavy door behind him, and the rattle of the lock closing made Sara feel oddly claustrophobic; the noise was almost sinister when Michael locked her in. Then he switched off the lights from the corridor and shut the blinds on the small window, on the door.

She was left in the complete dark.

Whether her eyes were opened or closed made no difference, and the darkness seemed to absorb every bit of her – piece by piece. The darkness wasn't to be underestimated, she knew. Darkness could drive a person insane. The fear, the unyielding blackness almost felt material now, and she could sense its weight – she could feel it, trying to get inside of her, to nest into her core, inside her veins.

There was already so much darkness running in her veins.

Time passed, but nothing changed; she wasn't sure how to simply be alone in the dark could feel this terrible. It made her feel as though nothing made sense. After a few hours, she started thinking, and her thoughts began to dance in front of her eyes like animated memories, bright with their colors and vivacity but slowly fading away in her eyes, like embers growing dim. The visions seemed so clear but she had to wonder whether her eyes were even open – perhaps was she dreaming? She didn't care, then, because she started thinking about HIM, and he appeared to her, as real as he was in her arms.

He looked exactly the same as when she had last seen him, thick black hair, cold blue eyes and a slight beard darkening his cheeks. She smiled at the need to touch him, as though to want him badly enough would make him be here, for real – as if any of it had ever been real. He smiled at her, and she imitated him, unaware, reaching out for his face with her hand, aiming to graze his lips with her fingertips.

Before she could reach him, she blindly realized her eyes were shut and she opened them obliviously before a warning could will her not to. And then he had disappeared, as quick as he'd come; suddenly there was nothing left, he was gone, there were no colors, and everything was black again.

She felt the loneliness. She felt the emptiness. But the locket hanging to her neck like the rope of a hanged man reminded her painfully, knotting her throat with bitterness, that regardless of who was or wasn't around, she wasn't alone.

She was never alone.