A/N: Who's ready for chapter 4? I sure am. After overcoming some serious writer's block on this chapter, I'm happy to finally get it online. I know some things on here aren't one hundred percent perfect yet, so I will most likely be touching some things up, but the plot will stay the same. I hope you all are enjoying your summer(if you live in the Northern Hemisphere)! Important suggestion: Try listen to "Torn(Redux)" by Nathan Lanier(on Youtube) while reading this, it was a great help in getting me writing!

Now, I realize that you all are here for the story, but if you're interested, I can give a little "About the Author". I am a 15-year-old girl, born and raised in the USA. I live in Connecticut. My family is amazing and very big, as my grandmother had 13 kids. My mom's side of the family lives in South Africa. I have dirty-blonde hair and olive-toned skin and hazel eyes. Anyway, I started really getting into my writing in 5th grade, which I have my teachers to thank for. They really inspired me, and the activities we did as a class helped my growth as a writer soooo much. Of course, I was always a bookworm, spending most of my time with my nose buried in a book. My faith in God also is a big inspiration in my writing. Thank you for reading this, if you did, and here's Chapter 4!

Tintin's eyelids fluttered open, his weary eyes meeting darkness. His body felt heavy, and his head throbbed mercilessly. For every breath he took, he felt a sharp stab of pain in his chest, like he was being suffocated from the inside out. He tilted his head, the pain momentarily sharpening. He was upright, tied to what he assumed was a chair. Barely audible voices lulled in the back of his mind, a fragment of conversation here and there.

"...out cold for six hours…"

"...the procedure...his notepad…."

Tintin blinked, his eyelashes brushing against something tough and leathery, pressed tight against his face. His arms were secured down firmly, and he felt the familiar roughness of wood until his fingertips.

"Ah, he's awake."

Tintin turned his attention to the voice. The other voices had died down, leaving an empty silence in their places.

"Mr. Tintin, the young reporter with big ideas; the one who has foiled so many other brilliant schemes. I have no doubt in my mind you intend to do the same with our little organization?"

Tintin slowly licked his dry lips.

"Organization? An organization of crime?" He muttered, his voice treading lightly. The voice chuckled mockingly from behind him.

"What did you think this was? A handful of deranged lunatics with guns? No, more likely you were like the rest of those idiots who passed it on as terrorism."

There was an exaggerated sigh, and Tintin could almost taste the annoyance in the man's voice.

"I thought you were better than this, Tintin. This game is no fun to play with amateurs."

Tintin pressed his fists against the ropes, setting his jaw. Keep your cool, Tintin. Play for information.

"So you're a mafia then?"

"By now, I suppose we are. 'The Belgian Mafia'. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Steady...I must keep him talking.

"But...everyone knows mafias are secretive and...a public shooting isn't exactly-"

"Do you think we picked up a manual?!" the voice burst, striding forward. A hand grasped Tintin's chin and jerked it upwards, Tintin's body undergoing a small spasm of pain in response.

"Of course, you're used to playing by the rules, aren't you? You and your damned simple-mindedness. Well, let me tell you something, reporter."

He gave the boy a firm shake. The pain doubled, to a point where Tintin's eyes started to tear up, before gradually fading away.

"Fear is man's greatest weapon. With it, he may not only control the body but the mind. And when he controls the mind, well..."

There was a dry chuckle.

"The world becomes his playground."

The man stepped back, releasing him. He spoke again, this time to his companions.

"Teach him a lesson, boys."

They obediently stepped forward and cut Tintin's arms and legs from the chair, securing his hands behind him. He clenched his teeth in disgust, catching a heavy whiff of tobacco and alcohol from the men. They were about to march forward when the sound of a door being thrown open caught their attention.

"Elliot? What's going on?"

The voice was feminine, and surprisingly familiar. Tintin searched his memory desperately, but couldn't put a face to the voice. As he focused in on the voice, he could almost pick out something foreign mixed in with the accent, yet it was too light to define. Tintin's thoughts were brought back to the present by a familiar sigh from Tintin's left.

"Stupid girl...you know what you are to call me here. Who sent you?"

His voice was hard and angry, yet it was riddled with a note of gentleness, as a father might scold his child.

"Tumey said you caught the reporter boy, Tintin. I see he spoke truly."

That voice. I know her voice, but from where?

"Tumey is an ass, Alice. He obviously doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."

The girl's voice tightened.

"Y-you're sending him to the...the-"

"Yes, and I suggest you leave this room, and forget this business. Now."

"P-please, I want to be there. I want to prove myself to you, and the experience would be valuable."

Elliot sighed, a silence weighing heavy on the room.

"Fine. Go with them. But listen close, one word out of you and I'll have you flogged myself."

Tintin was then hustled forward, the fear in his chest starting to build, outweighing the pain.

It doesn't look like you're going to get out of this one, Tintin.

/*/*/*

"What shall we start with?"

"Drug 'im up so he doesn't pass out. We can start with the flogging."

Tintin swallowed, his palms and brow breaking into a cold sweat. He listened to the shuffling of feet for a few moments, preparing himself for the agony that was sure to follow.

The hiss of a whip sounded, and he clenched his jaw, bracing himself.

"This one works fine. Fifty or so should do it."

He released a shaky breath. The next one will be real. It will be painful.

The dreaded hiss never came. There was a dull thud, and something large fell to the ground.

"What th-"

Thud.

There was a tense silence, and Tintin could hear someone breathing, shaky and light. The girl, of course. Tintin let out a quiet gasp, pressing his forehead into his forearms. I mustn't underestimate her. She's unpredictable.

Tintin suddenly felt a soft tugging at the metal cuffs on his wrists.

"Don't move."

A moment later, something crashed into the metal chain connecting the cuffs.

She must be mad, he thought. He tensed, waiting motionlessly. Sure enough, the chain received another hard strike, fully snapping in two. Quick as lightning, Tintin ripped the leather blindfold off, ignoring the painful protests in his chest, and launched himself at the blurry figure beside him, pinning the girl against the wall. She took in a sharp breath, struggling helplessly against him. As Tintin's eyes adjusted to the light, he picked out wavy brown hair, a fair complexion, and lastly, a pair of deep blue eyes.

"A-Anya?" He stammered, a flush creeping up his neck. She narrowed her brow, meeting his gaze head-on. Her struggling arms stilled, going limp against his. Tintin swallowed, leaning back an inch. Her eyes did not waver from his, and Tintin could only hear her shaky breathing.

"L-let me g-go…." she demanded weakly.

"Alright...alright, I'm going to let you go, but don't...don't try anything," Tintin stammered, releasing his grip on her. She folded her arms in front of her, her gaze retreating to the floor. Tintin took a breath, and tried again.

"What are you doing here, Anya?"

She bit her lip, looking very much like a naughty schoolgirl.

"I couldn't let them hurt...I would never forgive myself," she murmured softly.

"Wh-why?" he implored, tilting his head, willing her to meet his eyes.

"All those times I've stood by, while the people beside me inflict unspeakable pain...at least I know you've done nothing to deserve that," she replied, her voice hardening as she turned her gaze onto his; "There's no time. They will be back soon. You have to get out of here."

"They will kill you. You know they will," Tintin stammered.

"Don't you think I know that?" she hissed, squeezing her hands into fists. She glared at him, as if force-feeding him the three words he knew he would have to say.

Tintin felt his stomach turn, and he felt a stab of pity for this girl, for whatever she had witnessed in the past. He shook himself; there was no time to waste.

"Come with me," he asked, breathlessly. Her tense expression faded slightly with unspoken relief, and perhaps a hint of spite.

"Come with you? That's an idea. In fact, that's the smartest thing I've ever heard you say."

"Alright, alright! We don't have time right now, okay? Can you find a way out of here?"

"Just follow me."

As quickly as the decision was made, she was on her feet and pulling the heavy steel door open, her brain working miles ahead of her feet. Tintin stumbled after her, careful to shut the door without slamming it. She took a left, holding the drag of her navy blue dress up. The dress caught Tintin's attention for half a second; the back dipped halfway down her back, lying flat around her waist. The hem of the dress covered to her knees, but it wasn't poofy or extravagant like dresses Tintin had seen before. It was simple, yet strangely appealing. He swallowed, hastening after her.

"All these hallways look the same. How on earth do you find your way around?"

The edges of Anya's mouth quirked upwards slightly as she glanced about for danger.

"I'm quite good with direction."

Tintin raised his eyebrows.

"Really?"

"At least, when using your compass."

Tintin felt his pockets, exasperated.

"Where did y-"

"When they catch unfortunate game like you, they leave your belongings on the table in the South wing...I managed to snatch some things, but your money was taken. Sorry about that."

"No, don't worry about it. Did you see my notepad?"

"That was confiscated to the boss. Anything of importance is."

She stopped sharply at the end of the hall, where it branched off into two different directions. Tintin bumped into her lightly, quickly steadying himself.

"I usually use the exit on the North wing."

They heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps. Anya flinched, looking about her wildly. The way the sound bounced off the concrete walls, it was difficult to decide which direction it was coming from. Tintin grimaced as the footsteps drew closer, pressing his back against the wall. We're sitting ducks out in the open like this.

"Anya, we have to hide in one of these rooms," he breathed, motioning towards the line of steel doors on the opposite wall. A distant voice called out as the footsteps drew nearer.

"Hurry," Anya whispered, following him as he slipped behind one of the doors. There was a rustle, and a gasp of surprise inside as Tintin pushed the door shut. They sharply looked to where the sound came from. Two heads jerked up from splotchy white sheets on a small, rickety bed. Anya stole a glance at Tintin as he tensed up beside her, the skin over his jaw dimpling as he clenched his teeth. A large, shirtless man pulled himself up from the bed, with a growl of fury, and flung himself at Tintin. The boy was usually quick on his feet, but his injured state and initial shock slowed him. He backed against the door and slid down sharply, his chest feeling on fire. The man slung his fist into the door painfully, but was quick to recover. He wound up his leg to kick Tintin, who rotated sideways as fast as his body allowed. The man suddenly froze, glass shards exploding from the back of his bald head. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled sideways to the ground. Anya looked down at him with a satisfied scoff, then turned to the woman, who was still in the bed. She held up her hands in defeat.

"Don't hurt me, I won't say anything. I don't live here."

She threw her legs over the other side of the bed, wrapping some sort of garment around her. Tintin pulled himself to his feet, holding his side with one hand. He could feel two of his ribs were more loose than the others, and grimaced. The woman smelled strongly of alcohol and smoke; as she passed Tintin, she paused, summoning her best seductive smile, and put a hand on her hip provocatively.

"I can't say I enjoyed him, but I'd have you for half price any day. We can do it right now, if you want to."

Tintin stiffened, Anya looking from the woman to him in alarm.

"No, thank you," he replied firmly.

"Too bad," she said with a shrug, fixing Anya with a dirty glare. She flounced out the door and turned left. Tintin glanced after her, then turned to Anya again.

"We can't leave out the North wing. The place is swarming with thugs. See, they're all heading that way."

He motioned to a short, Mexican man walking briskly down the hall.

"But that's the only way I know where to go! The Southern wing is for the high-ranking officers only."

Tintin gazed into her eyes seriously.

"You can do this, Anya. Just follow your instinct. If we even find a window-"

"There are no windows!" she blurted, exasperated, "There may be a door, but it's going to be closely guarded. We'll never…."

She stopped short, her mouth half-open. Her eyes gleamed, refocusing on Tintin.

"What is it?" he implored.

"I have an idea," she said, a smile slowly creeping up her face. "Yes, an idea. But you have to trust me."

"I think I can manage that," he replied, her smile catching on his lips.

"Perfect. Now, follow me."