Greg Sanders' bloodshot eyes open groggily and the pupils move around, taking in the surroundings. It's the first time he's woken up since last night, when I bashed his nose in. It felt good to do so, but that was not the point at hand.

"Awake finally, are we, Sleeping Beauty?" I gloat. The power I'm feeling, having him trapped here like a rat, it's the greatest feeling I've ever experienced...he can do absolutely nothing, even with a nice-sized window behind him, and that is the best part.

He is bound to a vertical water pipe by a zap strap. His hands are unbound so he can drink...we want him alive, for now.

"Go away..." he manages to groan and shuts his eyes again.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," I say, and strike him across the cheekbone.

"They'll find you, you know," says Greg. "They always do. Maybe they'll find me too..."

"Ha!" I bark. "By the time they find you, you'll be a shriveled corpse and smelling like a dead skunk in a sewer. Won't that be lovely?"

I grin to myself, enjoying this power.

"Anyway, must rush off now," I say, checking my watch. "I have to call my employer. By the way, make this last," I say, and thrust a water bottle on the ground next to him. "Because it's the only one you're getting."

I then kick him in the ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain. I pull a cell phone from my jacket, tell him to smile, and snap four pictures, and either strike or kick him as I take each one. I then shut the phone and head for the basement door.

"Sleep tight." I then turn on my heel and exit, closing the door behind me. As soon as I'm out, I flip open the phone again and dial a number.

"Hello?" it answers pleasantly.

"It's done," I answer. There is a pause, before the receiver speaks.

"Greg Sanders is dead?" it asks.

"No," I reply, but quickly continue. "He is very close, though."

"I thought you were going to make sure."

"I believed him to be. Then I heard him phoning his headquarters, and had to take him."

"You abducted him?"

"Yes."

"Why did you not kill him then?"

"If you wish to cause his friends as much anguish as possible, this is ideal. I've taken photos of him in his current state, and I'm going to send them to CSI."

There is a pause, as the other end ponders this. "That is an excellent idea," it says finally. "Good work. Now, are you ready for your next task?"

---

Mia stuck her hands in her pockets and walked down one of the many long, bluish hallways that ran through CSI. That was the longest day she'd ever spent in her life. Her whole life. Literally, no exaggeration, her whole God-damn life.

It was nine thirty and all she wanted to do was get home, put her stuff down and just go to sleep. Was that too much to ask?

"Not at all," Grissom had told her. "You've been working hard all day."

So she stepped out into the night air and just kept going. She didn't even stop to savour the relief of proper air, instead of stuffy lab air. She just wanted to get home as soon as she could.

But something happened then that put all thoughts of sleep out of her mind.

First she heard a small sound nearby, like something scraping on the asphalt. She stopped, and looked around warily. But the sound did not repeat. Thinking it must have been a figment of her imagination, she looked in front of her and continued towards her car.

That was when it happened.

A person, dressed all in black, his face masked, leapt out from behind the car closest to her, a knife held high in the air. He had boosted himself off the car's hood, and was flying straight down at her.

Mia screamed and threw herself out of the way. She landed on the ground and rolled over once, then turned her terrified eyes upward.

The attacker was standing over her, the knife gripped menacingly in his hand. With his gloved left hand, he slowly reached down for Mia's collar. She tried to back away, but she was so frightened she could hardly moved. His fingers soon found her collar and gripped it tightly.

She wanted to shut her eyes, but couldn't. She didn't seem to be able to do anything except watch helplessly as he pulled her forward, raising the knife as he did so. A beam of light fell upon her face from a streetlight. The knife was high. This was it.

Then the attacker stopped. What was visible of his brow furrowed, and his eyes were intent – as though not believing what he was seeing. Something wasn't right. What was going on? Why wasn't he killing her? Not that she was complaining, of course...

Then he let go of her collar and she fell to the ground with a thud. She stared at the night sky for a good few seconds, hardly daring to believe she was alive. Then she realized he could still be there, and sat up straight. She looked around frantically.

He was gone. He had simply vanished into the night, and left her there.

Why hadn't he gone through with it?

Mia couldn't bring herself to walk all the way across the parking lot to her car. That would be suicide. Instead, she got to her feet and, rubbing her stinging shoulder as she went, ran back toward the building.

She had to find someone...

"Warrick!"

Indeed, the CSI had just emerged from the headquarters, dusting off his jacket. He looked up quickly as Mia gasped his name. She sounded terrified.

"Mia?"

"Warrick, you've got to help me!" she pleaded hoarsely, running up to him and throwing her arms round him. There were tears of horror in her eyes. "I just- I almost- there was– I-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" said Warrick, patting her reassuringly on the back. "What's the problem?"

Mia, pulling back a bit so she could look at Warrick, tried to pull herself together. "Someone just – " She released Warrick completely, gulped, and suddenly retched all over the ground.

"Someone just tried to – to – to k-kill me," she stammered, leaning on her knees.

"Kill you?" said Warrick incredulously, slowly pulling his gun.

"Yeah...but he didn't go through with it. He stopped, just before – " She hurled again.

"Okay, okay, it's alright," said Warrick. "I'll have a look around."

Warrick cocked his gun and scanned the parking lot with his eyes. He held the pistol out in front of him, and slowly descended the steps into the lot. He looked around cautiously as he walked between the rows of cars.

"Hello?" he said, his voice echoing.

There was no answer. There wasn't even a sound, except for the roaring of cars passing the lot.

"Anyone there?"

Still nothing.

"Warrick Brown, CSI!" he said, as he looked about, peering around every car he came across. There didn't seem to be anyone - anywhere.

"Shouldn't you call for b-backup?" asked Mia from afar.

"Nah," said Warrick, lowering his gun, "he's probably gone by n – "

Suddenly the car next to Warrick sprang to life and before he had time to react, had swerved headlong into him. With a grunt of pain, he toppled onto the black hood. Whoever was driving was going straight for the car ahead of them. And they were moving fast.

Warrick hastily pulled his feet off of the grille and fired two shots into the windshield, shattering it. No blood, though.

Suddenly the car crashed into the other vehicle with an ear-splitting crunch. Warrick dropped his handgun, and it fell onto the floor of the passenger's side. Shit! That gave him another weapon.

Finally the vehicles lurched to a stop, and Warrick rolled off the hood on the passenger side. As he stumbled to his feet, feeling like one massive bruise, he heard the driver's door slam.

He looked up just in time. The attacker was already two feet away, swinging the knife horizontally. Warrick twisted out of the way, and the knife sliced his forearm. He let out a yell of pain, span round, and threw as hard a punch as he could muster.

His fist hit home, making impact with his assailant's forehead. As the attacker clutched his head and staggered, Warrick took the window of time to retrieve his gun. As soon as he had done so, he turned around and pointed it. But his attacker wasn't done yet. He'd already regrouped and was charging, knife in hand.

Warrick fired off another two shots, but the faceless assailant ducked and they missed. He smashed straight into Warrick, but Warrick threw his weight at him at the same time, and the bread knife fell to the ground and went skittering away under the car.

Instead, the attacker tried to take the pistol from Warrick, but the CSI wouldn't let go. They grappled with it for a few moments, and through carelessness, the remainder of the clip was wasted.

The gun was dropped and a melee began. The attacker sank his fist into Warrick's stomach. Warrick replied with a powerful punch between his shoulder blades. The attacker moved backwards and raised his fists, and Warrick did likewise.

"Mia! Go get – " A fist connected hard with the right side of Warrick's head, sending a searing pain through his jaw. He felt sure it was dislocated. He threw an uppercut, but missed.

The two of them ended up in a kind of mock bare-knuckle boxing match. Throughout the proceedings, the two men ducked and bobbed and punched, but not many made their marks. Eventually, Warrick's fist flew forward through the air like a freight train, and smashed the assailant's nose in. He howled in pain and staggered backward.

"Hold it right there!" came Brass' voice from the steps of the HQ. The attacker looked up, thought for a moment, then kicked Warrick's legs out from under him and bolted. There was the sound of three guns firing, but they all missed and the assailant disappeared into the night.

Warrick cursed under his breath and struggled to sit up. He looked over to see Brass, Grissom, and Catherine all jogging towards him. Actually, Brass was running for the parking lot exit, in hot pursuit of the suspect.

"Warrick!" shouted Catherine as she and Grissom came up next to him. "Are you alright?"

"My mouth," grunted Warrick, but his jaw was dislocated, so he was quite incomprehensible.

"His jaw's dislocated," said Grissom. "Call for an ambulance."

"Right," said Catherine, and took out her cell phone.

"Warrick, are you okay?" asked Grissom. "Just nod or shake your head, don't try and talk."

Warrick nodded, wincing at the pain.

"Did you see what he looked like?" asked Grissom.

Warrick shook his head. He looked down to see there was blood all over his knuckles, so he made a move to wipe them off on his pants. Grissom stopped him quickly.

"Don't do that!" he said. Warrick looked at him questioningly. Grissom elaborated. "That blood is evidence."