James Bond woke up to a blinding white light burning before his face. He was faintly aware that his wrists and his ankles were bound, his arms stretched out above his body. His head was spinning, his senses slowly and groggily returning to him. There was a faint taste of blood in his mouth and a dull throbbing pain pounding against his chest and head.

The last conscious memory he had was of Jamaica, where he had commandeered a motorcycle. He remembered being chased. There had been a crash and then…

"Good evening, Mr Bond. Or should I say Double-O Seven?"

The white light was shut off. The room was plunged into almost total darkness. The only light that remained came from a single spotlight, imprisoning Bond in the luminous yellow cone it cast around him. Bond looked upwards, hoping to see exactly what he was suspended from. The trail of a metal chain rose up high above him, extending from his wrists, and vanishing into the light that shone down upon him. Looking down, he saw the chain that descended from his ankles was bolted to the floor about three feet below him.

"Don't worry," the voice continued, "you're quite secure. Wouldn't want you to fall now, would we?"

It was a soft voice, which seemed only to add to its sinister tone. Slightly high-pitched and with a light accent that Bond was fairly sure was Irish. He knew exactly who that voice belonged to.

"I never knew you cared, Mr Moriarty."

"Oh, of course I care," said James Moriarty, stepping forwards so that the faint golden glow of the spotlight picked out the very edges of his hollow grin and pristine suit. "You put up quite a fight. Really, your efforts should be rewarded. I'm genuinely impressed with you."

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

"Yeah…" said Moriarty, running his eyes over Bond's bound figure. "But you're a dangerous man, Mr Bond. Impressed as I am, I can't let you go. I just can't. It will almost be a shame to see you die – you have had such a glittering career! But then, you did pick the side of the angels."

"Even angels have their dark days – something you might want to be aware of when I get out of here," said Bond.

"Your persistence is rather incredible. And just a little bit… pathetic. Well, can't stand around chatting all day. Lots to be done, governments to remove. Goodnight, Mr Bond."

As he turned on his heel, walking away into the shadows, Moriarty clicked his fingers. Suddenly two men were approaching Bond, surrounding him. One of the men stood atop a stepladder that he had pulled into place. Together, they fastened packs of what Bond recognised to be plastic explosives to his injured and restrained body. A timer was strapped to his chest, with a ten minute digital readout flashing in crimson on its black screen.

"This isn't going to help you, Mr Moriarty," Bond called out.

"Oh, I'm feeling fairly sure it will."

Bond smirked, silently and secretly tugging against his chains, testing their strength. His cold blue eyes stared into the darkness, desperately searching for some sign of his concealed captor.

"Do you expect me to talk?"

"No, Mr Bond. I expect you to burn."

The footsteps of Moriarty and his two henchmen rang out through the cold metal chamber, until finally disappearing with the sound of a heavy door slamming shut. The only noise that remained was the quiet bleeping of the timer on Bond's chest, which started the instant the door had shut.

Nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds…