Mark was awoken by a hard boot pressing into his chest, and he blearily turned towards the camera, which, sure enough, had a turning handle and a businessman behind it. The pressure wasn't quite to the point of pain- yet – but it was rather unnerving. A hand grabbed his chin. "Smile for the camera, Marky."
With his glasses partially broken, and a raging headache, his vision was limited to basic shapes and movement, it was no big surprise when he didn't see the boot moving up, then stomping on his ribs. He heard something crack, and held back a scream. That, at very best, was going to leave a very nasty bruise.
"Today is Sunday, December 26th, Ms. Johnson. You have five days to cancel your protest, but, holding true to our word, Mr. Cohen is going to pay for your lack of cooperation."
Mark groaned as he was pulled to his feet, where he leaned unsteadily against the wall. "We're going to fight," the thug leered. "You win, and we'll let you outta here." He grinned. "Lose, and I get to beat the shit out of you." He took a step forward. "Ready?"
Mark managed to blurt out, "I don't fight," before being slammed into the wall, fists flying into his stomach, chest, and face. He clutched desperately at the wall, trying to remain upright.
"Aren't you going to fight back?"
"I… can't… don't… fight…" Raymond took a step towards him, and he used the little strength left in his legs to try to back away. "Please… don't… I'm not-" A fist swung into his stomach at full force, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, dry heaving the nothingness he had eaten in the last couple of days, coughing up blood. His arms gave out under him, and his vision went black once more.
"Time, Ms. Johnson, is running out."
