The skin surrounding his eyes is damp, a throbbing sensation beats at the top of his head. His chest is still rising and falling rapidly. He tries to slow his breathing, but a small sting of adrenaline teases his body into staying in panic mode. He tries to convince himself that this is just a nightmare, soon he'd wake up and find that he was at home, safe and sound in his soft bed.

He closes his eyes, thinking about falling asleep. Maybe it would pass the time until the team finds him-dream or not, they would be looking for him...right?

He's just about to drift off when suddenly, the whirring noise comes to a halt. He hears a click, and the green glow is gone, overtaken by a bright flash of light. There's an eerie silence, broken only by the sharp breath he takes in surprise as he drops the glow stick he was previously clutching. He lifts his hands in front of his face, it's as if a bright light was shining into his face. He quickly glimpses at the source, it's coming from the bottom of the box between his legs.

With the new source of light, he's able to get a crystal clear look at his surrounding. He suddenly feels sobered, as the effects of the drugs have completely worn off.

He had hoped the drugs had tricked him into thinking he was trapped when he wasn't. He had hoped that the limited light source had tricked his eyes into seeing what had appeared to be dirt surrounding him. He had hoped that his fate wasn't the same as Uma Thurman's in that damn movie he can't seem to remember the title of at the moment.

It's now twelve thirty-five in the morning, and he is absolutely buried alive.

He tries again in vain to open the lid to his coffin, but it's no use. He keeps thrashing, screaming, sobbing, but after another minute and a half he realizes that this is real. With one last pounding of his fist on the box, he forces himself to take a few deep breaths.

"Okay," he tells himself, an echo of that final word on the tape that told him he was going to die here. But unbeknownst to the criminal that did this to him, Nick Stokes does not give up that easily. He was going to get out of this box and breath the fresh Nevada air once again.

He takes inventory of what he has to work with. He has a fully loaded gun, a recorded message from his abductor, a tape recorder and four glow sticks, one fully lit. Now that there is another light source, he won't need to crack open another glow stick for a while.

He digs into his pockets, he can feel the last piece of gum stuffed in his left back pocket. He has a pair of latex gloves in his front right pocket. His other pockets are empty, the abductor must have removed his cell phone and wallet.

He turns to the source of the whirring noise that he had previously ignored in his panic, there's a circular grated vent next to him, he can feel a gentle breeze of air flowing though. Maybe if he could remove the grating, pause the fan, he could scream for help. He tries to remove the vent, but finds that it's too tight to pry off with his fingers.

Suddenly, the bright light fades back into the green glow, and the whirring noise intensifies. The air flow increases, and he moves his head closer, breathing in as much air as he can. The box on its own would only sustain him for maybe an hour and a half at most...but why provide him the additional air supply? Why tell him he was going to die in this box, but then offer him a tool for survival?

His thoughts are disrupted as the light clicks on again. The air flow starts to slow, and in its stead, the heat of the box rises.

He's lost count of how many times the light has turned on since his arrival to the coffin, but he's figured out that the light is turned off after two minutes of staying on, although the timing of it turning back on is inconsistent, varying from just a few seconds to nearly a minute.

The fan is like a carrot at the end of the stick, but the light is like the stick-holder, yanking away the carrot every time he almost gets enough air to breathe normally.

The lack of a consistent air flow is not the worst part of his ordeal, though. The heat coming from the light is worse, just barely, but still worse. Sweat is beaded all over his face, his feet feel as if he had stepped in a puddle. He contemplates ripping off his shirt, but knows his skin would just end up sticking to the acrylic glass surface, making the ordeal just as worse.

His mouth feels dry, and his stomach grumbles. He can no longer feel his legs, or most of his body for that matter. Lying still for so long has made his joints go stiff, his whole body feels weak. He takes a glance at his watch.

It's seven in the morning. He should be ending his shift by now, or heading to breakfast, or filing his shift report, or talking to Warrick in the locker room…

Warrick in the locker room. He lets out a soft chuckle, how did a night that started out with a casual conversation between two friends turn into an exercise in torture? Is Warrick out looking for him now, or is he still tangled up at Strip-o-Rama? He knows better than to think the latter, cause if it was Warrick in this box-which it damn well nearly was-Nick would have dropped everything to find him.

Catherine's probably raising hell, bargaining for every available resource she can get to find Nick. Do they even know where to begin?

Did she have to call his parents? He can see Mom and Cisco, lamenting the disappearance of one of their sons. Oh well, they still have six other children that may not be buried before they die.

Did Ecklie allow Grissom, Sara and Greg to join the search? Or did he decide it wasn't worth the time, and make them work the rest of the assignment slips that are piled so high they're reaching the ceiling?

He can see Sara and Greg at the alley, taking the same pictures he took of the entrails and cigarette butt and tire treads, finding the same styrofoam cup he did, already bagged and tagged, but not tagged correctly. Hopefully they didn't pick it up, and didn't wake up six feet under like he did.

And Grissom...well, he's probably just being Grissom, isn't he?

"Enough with….Enough with the damn light!"

It's one thirty in the afternoon, and way past his bedtime.

It's been well over twelve hours, and he's beginning to suspect that he's being watched. He wonders if they can even hear him, though he's stayed mostly silent since his initial freak-out.

After a grueling two minutes, the light turns off again, and the fan turns on full power. He can breathe again.

Almost an instant later, the light turns back on.

"No!" he pleads. He begins to wonder why the fan seems to slow whenever the light turns on and off, and maybe it's the low amount of oxygen in the box or the fact that he's overtired, but he finally makes the connection.

"The fan's connected...The fan's connected to the light."

A few more cycles later, and he reaches his breaking point. He takes a look at the light, and then back at the fan. Maybe if he could break the light, whatever power supply that's keeping the fan and light running would focus solely on the fan. He contemplates kicking out the light, but the light is protected by the same acrylic glass that so far hasn't broken under the pressure of his punches and kicks.

Then his hand brushes against the gun, and he gets an idea as to how he can break through the light.

But unless he wants to come out of this deaf, he needs to put something in his ears. He remembers the gum that he offered D.A. last night,and twists his waist so he can dig it out of his back pocket. It almost hurts to move, like his body was punctured with thousands of pins and needles after not moving for so long. His stiff fingers comb through his back pocket, until he's able to pull out that last piece of gum.

He lays his head back, his body feels heavy with exhaustion at the slightest of movements, and his hands tremble as he struggles to unwrap the gum. He tosses the wrapper to the side and starts chewing.

He spits out a wad of saliva, which ends up landing on his hand. He waits until the bubblegum flavor is gone from his mouth before taking out half of the gum, sticking it in his right ear. He then takes the other half and puts it in his left. The moist, makeshift earplugs don't feel all that pleasant, but they'll get the job done. He can't hear the whirring of the fan any more, he can only hear the sound of his labored breathing.

His hand searches for the gun that he had tossed back to the side, he had no intention of using it until the fan dies out. He had kept it barely at arm's reach so that he wouldn't keep touching it, he didn't want to be reminded that it was a way out.

He cocks the gun and contemplates the options laid out before him. He could shoot the lid to the box, and try to claw his way out of the hole before the dirt suffocates him entirely. But his body is too weak for that amount of activity right now, and he could be three feet or ten feet underground.

He could shoot the light, possibly lending more power to the fan, and possibly extending the amount of time he'd be able to stay alive until he's rescued. On the other hand, shooting the light is going to create a hole, it could cause the box to collapse. There's even the possibility that he could miss entirely and shoot his feet off, and then he'll end up bleeding out instead of suffocating.

But that's all it is, a possibility. He touches the gun to his chin. It's been over twelve hours, if they're not going to find him now, they'll probably never find him.

Put your gun in your mouth, and pull the trigger…

What's the point in delaying the inevitable? Any way he likes, he's going to die here.

His face scrunches in defiance, and his decision is made.

If someone really is out there watching him, he hopes they can see his small victory. He lets out a cold, almost maniacal laugh before cracking open another glow stick and relishing the now fully reliable air supply.

It's quarter to two in the afternoon, and he has finally taken control in this uncontrollable situation.