For a long stretch, the two men watched as the newcomer prowled around the small cell, testing out the locked concrete door, its hinges and even trying to claw out a screw. She seemed to be trying to get a hold of anything sharp, Kyoya noted, and so was most likely a capable person. However, her mannerisms were... off. There was no way this girl was a born and raised heiress, not with how unbothered she seemed with being dirty and certainly not with the way she swore under her breath.

(After a brief pause, both Tamaki and Kyoya glanced down and blushed at how filthy their clothes had become. Perhaps a less delicate constitution was called for.)

They were fed three times a day now, and it was always the same brand of cup noodles with a sealed bottle of water. The girl was not given a sealed bottle, but an opened one that a Yakuza member had been assigned to make sure she drank in front of him. The first night the woman was with them, she had dumped the water onto the cell floor and drank nothing. The next, the gangsters tried beating her and holding her down to make her drink, but she choked and spat the mouthfuls she could at the men grabbing her, yelling hoarse obscenities between coughs. It was suitably impressive to Kyoya, who thought her foolish struggle would only bring them to strike her quicker and harder.

Kyoya told her so. It wasn't the first time that the boys had spoken to her, but it was the first time one of them had tried to expressly warn the newcomer of their concerns. She had laughed, shockingly enough. The moment she did it her entire expression changed into something young and sweet, and by the way Tamaki's shoulders loosened up next to his own (the two of them often sequestered into a corner together, to allow the woman more prowling room), Kyoya knew she had won him over. Anything and everything beautiful always did.

Then the woman had padded over to them (she had arrived without shoes), and leaned forward to softly let them in on a secret:

"I'm going to get us out of here."

Crazy. Astonishment wove its way around the two, and then dread quickly followed a moment after. Maybe she was crazy. The woman saw the brief flashes of disbelief but seemed unoffended. Kyoya felt a bit of sickened despair. She had to be crazy; That's why the gangsters had resorted to drugging her. They were going to die in this dingy concrete coffin with a drugged up crazy person.

The door opened, slow and heavy. A single man walked in, in a dress shirt and black tie. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to reveal a kaleidoscope of designs, and from catching a glimpse of his hand as he slammed the door shut, the knuckles were scarred and adorned in rings. He spoke in a low and sharp sort of way; the cadence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted without trying very hard for it. He spoke only to the girl, who's drugged responses were suddenly slow and feeble.

(What would happen when they realized Kyoya was his father's youngest? He often wondered, but never said it out loud in fear of being overheard. Where was his family? Where was Tamaki's?)

"What's wrong with him?" someone gruffly asked.

"Nothing," Tamaki said quickly, and he tried nudging Kyoya to attention.

(As the son of two socialites and a dual citizen, the Suoh heir should have been counted as missing by now, and with him, Kyoya. So where was everyone? Where were the heros bursting in with their flashing lights and shock blankets? Did their friends know?)

"Hey, you." A hand gripped Kyoya's shoulder, digits digging painfully around his rather pronounced collarbone.

"Don't touch him!"

(They were going to find their bodies in a ditch somewhere, abandoned and cold and stiff-)

It wasn't until the woman let out a wild scream and something slammed Kyoya into the wall that he realized something had gone awry. The something had turned out to be Tamaki, who had desperately placed his own body between Kyoya's and the Yakuza member. There was a mess of limbs for a brief moment, and it took longer than that for everyone to regain their bearings. The woman had slammed her body against the gangster's, who slammed into the wall behind him and narrowly missed braining her fellow captives. The Yakuza let out a grunt and struggled with her for a bit, and seemed to be gaining on her. Tamaki was tossed to the ground by an elbow, and held his bleeding nose as he jumped right back into the fray.

(Kyoya had never seen him like that; blood and dirt were things that never stained Tamaki's skin, fear and hate were never supposed to bleed into his eyes like that.)

Kyoya couldn't move, paralyzed by the violence and speed of everything around him. Perhaps, if he was very still, it would sweep its eyes over him and miss him. He peaked through Tamaki's blond hair to see the fighting, but then Tamaki moved, and it was the three of them fighting and Kyoya alone in the corner.

If he got up, right then, Kyoya thought, if he got up he could go and-

The door opened again. Three more men showed up.

"Don't touch him!" Kyoya could make out again, and he noted that again, it was two voices that cried out for him. He slumped down, and he shut his eyes tightly. He knew how this ended.

That didn't make the taser hurt any less.