Bel was broken, a former shell of himself. No matter what Xanxus or Mukuro did to him, he was unfeeling, unseeing; he just lay there, unable to even cry anymore – but what gave it away the most was the fact that, here and now, people who knew, trusted and loved were trying to get him out of his chains and he still felt as empty as he had the day before as he went through hell.

Dino-san, you're going to hurt him…

Sorry, Tsuna, I'm trying…! Takeshi, help me break this chain from the wall.

It's okay, Bel… It's going to be okay; we'll get you out of here.

Despite how hard the others were trying to get Bel to focus on him, the blond just couldn't register them in his mind; all he could really manage was letting their voices whisper though his consciousness like fleeting daydreams.

Guys, hurry up; Xanxus could come down here any minute!

The voices surrounding him meant nothing to Bel. The hands on his body touching him with comforting gestures he could barely acknowledge. The grating of the chains that had kept him locked away for however long made his migraine worse, but he didn't notice people trying to free him from his confines; nothing felt real to him anymore, and he considered the idea that maybe… nothing was real. Maybe it was all an illusion, or he was really a ghost who didn't know he was dead.

Bel, please… Look at me…

In the deepest recesses of Bel's hazy mind, he thought he heard Gokudera's voice – but that couldn't be right; Gokudera was still in Japan, and Bel had made the mistake of leaving the safety of his boyfriend's arms to return to the country that had only ever caused him agony. He was imagining things, or maybe it was another sick game of Xanxus'. Gokudera wasn't here, not in Italy, and certainly not in Xanxus' basement trying to save him.

No one was coming to save Bel; this would be where he died, and no one even cared – he had only thought they did, just like Xanxus had told him.

I love you, Bel… I love you…

Bel remembered those words. Gokudera had said them to him so often, Bel had actually felt loved. He remembered spending hours trying to overcome his anxiety to say those three words back to his boyfriend, but he had never been able to do so. He briefly wondered what it was like to be able to speak in such a carefree way, or how his own declaration of love would have made Gokudera react – but he would never find out, because he was going to die in this cold, dark basement that reeked of his own blood, terror and other men's semen.

The blond could feel soft lips against his own, and he didn't even think about doing so; he just parted his lips, knowing it would be Mukuro kissing him again; the long-haired man had a strange fetish of acting intimately towards him, after all.

Damnit, why won't he respond?!

He had made someone mad again. No surprise there; he always seemed to frustrate or depress the people around him. He didn't know what he could have possibly done this time, but it didn't matter; nothing mattered anymore.

Hayato, calm down; they've traumatised him. It's not his fault.

Ah, yes. Trauma. Bel knew trauma like he knew his own hand. He had had his balls cut off, his virginity stolen, and the internal injuries he had received from hours of rape on top of the physical beatings had put him in a coma on his ninth birthday. He knew all about trauma, but why was that important anymore?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the voices faded as the sound of the basement door creaking open took over. He listened to the two sets of footsteps that stepped further in to the room, but never before had they stopped at the top of the staircase. He didn't have much time to ponder why, however; a deafening bang resounded through the basement, and before he could so much as blink; he was laying limp on the cold concrete ground as people screamed his name and blood pooled around his head.

Bel wasn't aware of the fight that ensued minutes later; he wasn't aware of anything. But as always, life hated him and refused to give him what he wanted; he had snippets of consciousness, where he could hear the wailing of a siren as his back laid against something warm and comfortable for the first time in – in however long it had been since he had been kidnapped from his home. He was briefly conscious as he was wheeled through a well-lit corridor that was sickeningly white. And several times after that, he would come to and hear a loud beeping by his side and feel someone's hand hold his tight.

But despite his brief awakenings that never lasted for more than a few seconds, he would never see that cold, dark basement again.