The first thing Alfendi felt was the distinct cold metal that wrapped around his wrists as he woke, his arms above his head. He blinked blearily, attempting to bring his hands towards his eyes as a reflex, but they were chained to the bed. Upon slight movement, he realized that so were his legs, rendering him practically immobile and pulled like a starfish. His eyes widened and he struggled, the metal of the handcuffs clanging with the metal of the bed, but it was no use.

"Good morning, Mr. Layton! I'm glad to see you awake. Did you know that you snore?" A shrill, akin to the grating, high-pitched voice of a school girl with a slight and incredibly faint Scottish lilt within her voice, just enough to be obvious. Alfendi jerked his head over to the voice, finding a young woman in the metal chair he used when he sat down to write his letters, her petite figure wearing a purple set of scrubs with a badge clipped to the pocket that he recognized as Sam's. Her blonde hair bounced as moved her head like a metronome, hands tapping on the chair idly with latex gloves. "Honestly, for the amount of money your father puts into this facility for your stupid recovery, I can't believe how easy it is to get in. I suppose rehab isn't meant to be hard to get in or out of, but still. Security was a breeze!"

"Who the hell are you?" Alfendi barked and the woman laughed, as though she had heard a joke that only she was privy to. Alfendi scowled.

"Mm, that is a good question! Who am I? Let's just say that I'm someone you've wronged horribly...not me directly per se, but nevertheless. It's all semantics at the end of the day." Her voice dropped slightly as she reached behind her, grabbing one of Lucy's letters—the most recent one, based on the colour of the stationary the letter was written in. Alfendi twitched, attempting to pull slightly at his binds to no avail. That only seemed to spur the woman, who stood up and came close, just enough for him to smell the slight aroma of lavender perfume. "I'm impressed, Mr. Layton. Really, I am. You've finally started some sort of recovery after months of sitting here idly. Does it have to do with Ms. Baker, I wonder?"

"Don't you bring her into this." He responded through gritted teeth. Heaven forbid something happen to her; he'd never forgive himself then.

"You know," the woman continued speaking as though he hadn't uttered a single syllable, "Lucy Baker is quite the impressive Detective Constable. She could take your position, honestly, if that little...mm, what do you call him? Bratwright? Yes, if his ego and pride wasn't as long as his hair, perhaps she'd be rising the ranks ever so quickly. Or rather...if Barton wasn't such a softie for you and your father, she could be a DI now. Even kept that pesky Mystery Room of yours wide open, ready to take you back in so easily." She rolled her eyes at that, peering down at the letter in her hands with thinly veiled disdain. "I've been waiting for you to wake up and your room is soooo boring. I had only these letters to read to occupy my time and they're such fodder for romance, it's sickening."

"What the hell do you want? Obviously, you're here for some reason. You have Sam's badge—couldn't have gotten that without hurting him." He pointed out, vaguely recognizing the tightening fear of concern. He'd never felt that way for another person (besides Lucy, that is), being concerned for their well-being. He pushed it back for now, eyes narrowing into slits as he glared at her. "What have you done?"

"Glad to see your detective reasoning hasn't dulled from the cocaine and lack of use, Inspector." The woman smirked, tossing the letter back onto the desk. "Mm, what have I done? Plenty, truthfully. Murders, drug trafficking, burglaries...hmm...plenty enough for my CV, don't you think?"

"You know what I mean." He bit out, clenching his fists. If he broke the bones in his hands the right way, perhaps he could slip out of these handcuffs, but at what cost? This woman couldn't have come alone and even if he managed to get a punch in, she probably didn't come empty handed either. The woman let out a exasperated huff, rolling her eyes.

"Gosh, you're no fun! You're just like my late father, even on his drunk days! All business, all murder and money collection and no play!" She pouted, which quickly morphed into something more sinister with the flip of a switch. A playful sinister, the type you'd see from an individual who felt as though they were above all and could do whatever they wished. "Ah, it doesn't really matter, Mr. Layton. I'm here to give you a choice."

"And if I refuse to join your game?"

"Come on, Prof. Humour me. It's not like you'll be going anywhere soon." Without waiting for an answer or a retort, she tossed the letter back onto the desk and pulled a small bag that was the the size of a 50p coin, a metal spoon, lighter, and a fresh needle out of her pockets. His eyes trained straight to the bag, the itch he thought he had suppressed since the last time he had used in the facility coming back to him like a lorry hitting his body at sixty miles an hour. He blinked, managing to wrench his eyes back to the woman's maroon ones, but it was too late. She saw the briefest tinge of desire in his look. "Ah, the siren call of old habits, hm? Is the sauce truly that tempting?"

"What, you're going to put that in me and then I'll be stuck here longer?" He pointedly ignored her question, shame bubbling within his chest. He wasn't going to get that needle anywhere near him if he could help it.

"Oh, come on, Mr. Layton! Don't be so pedestrian, it really doesn't work for your character. No, no, that's too easy." She strolled back to the desk, placing the paraphernalia down onto the surface with care and turned back to him with her heel, smiling as though the day was bright and wonderful. "If I wanted to do that, there would be no need to do all this effort! No, I'm giving you a choice. You can take it or not. That's all."

"That's all?" He repeated and she rolled her eyes once more, as though she was an instructor teaching a moron a language from scratch.

"For that, yes. I can't wait to see what decision you make, Mr. Layton. I wonder if you'll surprise me." She dug into her pocket once more, pulling out a vial with a watered down, milky white substance inside and another needle. He recognized it from a previous case—propofol. Almost immediate in effect and partial memory loss, used usually as an anesthetic for surgery. The woman hummed, pulling the protective cover off and sticking the needle into the vial. "Did you know, they call propofol the 'milk of amnesia?' A play on the milk of magnesia, how very amusing. Scientists are so quirky with their little titles..."

Once she was satisfied with the amount she pulled from the vial—which seemed to be almost the whole thing—she grabbed onto his sleeve, pulling it up as much as she was able. Alfendi tried to pull away with a renewed vigor and the woman sighed, exasperated at his attempts.

"It would be easier if you just laid still, it's not pleasant for a needle to be stuck in your arm while you're stressed. I'm sure you know that. It's either this or my friend outside knocks you out with a jab to the face. I think we know which one you prefer, hm? We wouldn't want Ms. Baker to see you all roughed up...or maybe she's into that? Who really knows..." Without any further preamble, the woman held onto his arm with an iron grip, jabbing the needle into a vein and pushed down the plunger quickly. He winced at the intrusion, glaring daggers at the woman. She pulled away and smiled, her lips turned up slightly.

"What have I done to incur your wrath? You wouldn't go through all the trouble if I didn't do anything to you." He asked, already feeling the effects of the drug pouring into his system, consciousness suddenly being hard to grasp. If he remembered correctly, propofol was meant for IV use, not a direct injection without antiseptic and other intents besides for surgery.

"You're the detective, you tell me, Inspector. I'm sure it's easy enough, yes?" Her eyes twinkled in the light as she waited for him to take a stab at it.

"I put someone close to you in jail." He attempted and she shook her head, the finer details of her appearance turning blurry as he struggled to remain conscious.

"Mm, jail would be a mercy for him, but no. You killed him in cold blood, Mr. Layton. After everything he did for you. My dear old Daddy is dead...and now I'm going to kill you. In a much more creative way than a bullet to the chest. A quick death would be too easy." Alfendi frowned at that, despite his rapidly altered state of mind. He had never put a bullet into someone, not to his express knowledge. He carried a gun, yes, back during his time at the Yard, but never needed to properly fire it. Most criminals weren't stupid enough to. Was she mistaking him for someone else?

"What...are you going...to do?" He voice slurred, blinking slowly. No matter how much he tried, consciousness was evading him more and more with every second. The woman pursed her lips, considering her answer before stepping forward once more to his rapidly relaxing figure.

"You'll see, Mr. Layton. You'll see..." She tapped him on the nose, her smile the last thing he saw as the darkness swallowed him whole.