Scott had been right, Stiles thought miserably. I should've trusted his instincts instead of mine.

The paralysis had finally worn off, but his broken wrist was twisted and throbbing horribly. Stiles had been in there long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and he could see the outline of the door just ahead of him. His eyes burned from the pain, tears streaming down his heated face. Stiles sobbed as he tried to move his limbs and fight against the restraints. But Peter had him tied tightly and trussed up like prized game. There was no escape; Peter was going to return at some point and do God-knows-what to him. Stiles was still sore and bruising from their last "interaction", and his chest tightened at the thought.

Peter was going to kill Allison. He was going to kill her and most likely Scott too because Scott would never let her face the trap alone. They'd be dead, and Stiles would still be in the closet like the pathetic victim that he was.

What was Peter planning to do to him? He would never let Stiles go; he knew too much at this point. Would he kill him? He knew that rape wasn't off the table; Peter didn't even hesitate when he had his way with him, so brutal and relentless. He'd probably fuck him until he got bored of Stiles, then dismember him and throw his corpse in the trash. The horrifying thought was too much, starting off another torrent of sobs that ripped from Stiles' throat.

He tried to focus his thoughts on Erica, thinking of her quick wit and blonde hair, her casual smirk and loving hands. He was always up for anything with her. Erica was into bondage, but Stiles had been nervous about being tied to her bed, even though it was for sexual pleasure. It reminded him too much of the time he got kidnapped when he was a teenager; how rough and clumsy the man's hands had been as he tied Stiles to the exposed pipe. He'd been terrified and ashamed of revealing that part of his past to Erica for the longest time, and had put on a brave face as she coiled the rope around his wrists and secured him to the headboard. He thought he could get through it since he had always put on a brave face for Scott's sake, but his body kept seizing up and shaking from fear. Erica had realized the triggering response within a second and had released him. She held and petted him throughout his panic attack, planting soft kisses to his temple.

For the thousandth time since Peter had left him there, Stiles wished that Erica was here.

Stiles tried wriggling his legs, moving his knees back and forth in order to loosen the rope's grip on his ankles. His feet were cold from the lack of circulation. Stiles' stomach did a flip when his chair nearly tipped to one side. He hastily adjusted his weight to the other side, balancing himself out just in time.

His chair was at a diagonal now, which gave him an idea.

Stiles twisted his head around, staring at the rows of clothing. He could see the raised ledges holding the black cases. The one containing all of the deadly knives was still open from when he'd been investigating them earlier. His stomach sunk when he saw that the one containing the sniper rifle had vanished.

No no no no no no no—

Stiles' breathing came out in short spurts; he had to get it under control so that he wouldn't bring on a panic attack. That wouldn't be a good idea with him being trapped and constrained in such a tiny area. He sucked in a great lungful of air and forced it back out. He repeated the process until his breathing was regulated and controlled once more.

Stiles then twisted his torso and knees to the left, and he heard the chair scrape on the hardwood with some small satisfaction. He then repeated the process, this time to the right. The minutes dragged by as Stiles forced his restrained body to work with him, pushing himself backwards little by little. After twenty minutes of careful movement Stiles felt his fingertips of his unbroken hand touch the ledge. He gritted his teeth, and gave his body once more final swing.

Stiles breathed heavily as he scrambled to grab one of the knives from the black case. This was the most frustrating part, since he could barely see over his shoulder to get a good look at them. His fingers finally closed over cold metal and his gripped the jagged edge tightly. Stiles carefully shifted his hold on the knife, his fingers maneuvering the blade so that he could hold it by the handle instead. He held onto it for dear life as he began to saw through the ropes, gritting his teeth whenever his broken wrist got jostled from the rough movements.

"COMEON!" Stiles screamed after ten minutes of useless sawing. These ropes were the genuine article; he might as well try cutting through steel cables with a toothpick. He felt hot tears bubbling up and spilling down his cheeks as he forced the knife through the ropes. He cried out in agony as his wrist rubbed against them, inflaming the skin with rope burn.

He had to get out of here. It felt like the walls were closing in on him. Stiles hiccoughed out a sob as he grinded the blade against the ropes. They felt looser on him; did some of it finally fray?

Excitement bloomed in his stomach; he was going to get out! His cutting became more frantic, and finally the rope came free. Stiles sobbed in relief, bringing his hands in front of him. His hand with the broken wrist was at an abnormal angle, still coursing with pain. Stiles tenderly used it to grab at the rope around his torso, cursing and screaming as he sawed through it with his good hand. It was much easier to get free when your hands weren't tied, literally.

After his ankles were free, Stiles slowly rose to his feet, his wobbling and boneless from the lack of movement. He flicked the switch, and was greeted with a bright light. He went to the door, and turned the knob. It was locked.

Stiles groaned in frustration. The knives were a ploy; Peter had left them there on purpose to toy with him. He wanted to give Stiles the illusion of escape, only to block that chance away with another barrier.

But now that he was free, Stiles could use the supplies in the closet in order to make an escape. He pressed his broken—and now horribly swollen—wrist to his chest as he gave the room an onceover.

Some of the other black cases of mass destruction were still here, but when Stiles tried to pry them open he found that they were locked. He probably didn't want me shooting up his precious walls, Stiles thought bitterly. A firearm would be perfect about now; Stiles could've shot one off and alerted Peter's neighbours to his presence.

But now that he knew Peter, the true psychotic one under the polite mask, it was five hundred percent possible that the walls were soundproof. It made sense; no one seemed concerned about the screaming and noise from the earlier roughhousing.

Stiles shuddered at the thought, and continued to peruse the room.

He decided that the knives were his best bet of getting out of here. Stiles was still naked, but he refused to put on some of Peter's clothes; he'd rather go around in his birthday suit than one of Peter's murderous ones. He stabbed the door right in the center; pushing the blade in as far as he could before twisting it to the left. Slivers of the wood and paint cracked off, but not enough to make a weak enough dent in the wall for Stiles to kick his foot through.

But still, it was a start.

Erica ended up vomiting as soon as she staggered out of Vernon's SUV. Vernon had parking in the visitor's lot on the side of the Aubrey Building, and he crouched next to her, rubbing soothing circles into her back. Erica's phone buzzed, and her heart leapt. She snatched it out of her pocket, and her shoulders slumped. It wasn't Stiles—of course it wasn't, he was in danger—but rather Lydia.

"So I go back to your place and find it vacated," Lydia scolded from the other end. Erica winced; she had completely forgotten about her.

"Something came up," Erica said. "I had to step out."

"You are supposed to be resting," Lydia said tightly. "That was the whole reason for me going to the pharmacy instead. Have you thought about how this will impact the ba—?"

"Please, it's been three weeks," Erica snapped, but there was no real bite in her words. "Nothing bad is going to happen, Jesus Christ." She suddenly felt exhausted. Vernon gently helped her to her feet as she continued to yammer away on the phone.

"This is important," Erica added as she and Vernon walked into the front lobby. The secretary at the front desk looked up and gave them a bright smile. Vernon went over to talk to her as Erica sat down on one of the plush couches.

"What's so important that you, who could barely stand up from morning sickness, had to go gallivanting out of your apartment—"

"Stiles."

Well, that sure shut Lydia up. Erica could hear her TV on Lydia's end with nothing else to break the silence. Erica forgot that she had left it on.

"What happened?" Lydia asked coolly. "Did he beg for you to take him back?" Lydia made it sound like Erica and Stiles had broken up on bad terms, when it had been the complete opposite. Why did it matter to her; she was still going to get what she wanted in the end.

"He's in trouble," Erica said. "I'm with Vernon; he's helping me out."

"So what am I expected to do?" Lydia said. "Sit around for you to come home?"

"You can leave," Erica growled out. "I don't need you to be around 24/7, for fuck sakes. I just need to find him and then I'll deal with my stupid problems, alright?!" She wasn't in the mood for Lydia's smart mouth; what she wanted was to find Stiles and then go home and puke the rest of her guts out.

"I don't think so," Lydia said back. "What I'm going to do is call the police."

"What?!" Seriously, what was that woman thinking? Did something in Erica's tone tip Lydia off about the impending severity of the situation?

"Yes," Lydia insisted. "This is starting to sound like a bad situation, which will seriously put a strain on your body. Whatever is going on is too much for you and your bar buddy to handle."

Erica subconsciously pressed a hand to her stomach. "I pride myself in handling a bad situation," she replied coolly. Vernon was making his way over to her now. Erica stood up, and press 'End', ignoring any protest Lydia was about to spout out.

"She didn't see Stiles or Peter leave the building today," Vernon said, "but she said that her shift started half an hour ago, so there's a good chance that the other lady might've seen them."

"There's no time to wait for her to confirm it," Erica said. She glanced over at the elevator.

"He's the penthouse," Vernon explained. "You'd need the code and key card to get in to access his elevator entrance.

"What about the stairs?" Erica asked. "He has to have a regular door to get in, in case of a fire or if the elevator's out of service."

Vernon pondered this, but Erica could tell that he was agreeing with her. "How well are you feeling?" he asked gently. "It's the top floor; it's quite the trek."

"I'll survive," Erica said, grinning.

"Do we call the cops?" Scott asked. Allison noticed how antsy he was; he couldn't stop rubbing his hands together and he kept staring at Allison's phone as if it would reveal all of the answers of the universe to him.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Usually you have to wait twenty-four hours if they're an adult."

"I'm pretty sure that's a rule Hollywood made up," Scott argued. He ran his fingers through his hair and took deep breaths. "If they're in danger, then the police will make it a top priority. Did Erica say what she was going to do?"

"She didn't, but I have a feeling that she has a plan."

"Even if she does, I can't wait around here." Scott twined his fingers with Allison's, giving them a squeeze. "I can't go through that again. I'm sorry that I'm being selfish, but—"

"Selfish?" Allison couldn't help but laugh. Scott could be so ridiculous at times. "It's not selfish to want your loved ones to be safe." She leaned in, pressing her forehead to her fiancé's.

Fiancé. It was an unusual word on her tongue, but she liked the taste of it. It was like saying the word 'home'. Scott was the embodiment of home and loving warmth, and he shamelessly expressed it every day. Everything that hurt him hurt her too. She hated seeing him look so lost and helpless.

"Today should be about us," Scott murmured sadly. "It should be about celebrating the next step in our lives."

"It still is," Allison corrected. "We're just modifying it. As soon as we get Stiles back everything will be better."

They stood like that for several minutes, just breathing in the comfort that the other provided. Scott's breath was hitching, so Allison pulled him into a hug. Scott pressed his eyes into her shoulder, choking out little sobs and whimpers.

"It's like déjà vu," Scott whispered into her ear. "Only this time I don't know what to do. Back then all I had was a bike. It took me forever to find him. When I finally did find the place where the asshole was keeping him, I went ballistic. I took my bat to him and gave it everything I had. I didn't stop until I heard his ribs break. It was like I was a different person."

Allison had heard this story before, only a different perspective of the scenario. It had been around four years ago when Stiles sat her down and explained his and Scott's codependency issues. She had been quiet whilst Stiles recollected his memories of the incident; memories that constantly replayed in his best friend's head whenever Stiles turned up late or went missing for hours at a time. Allison remembered thanking him for telling her, and had kissed him chastely on the cheek.

She slowly pulled away from Scott and cupped his face, wiping away the tear tracks with her thumbs. "I'm going to go file that report," she said. "Come on, let's get dressed and head down to the station."

The wood was beginning to weaken. Splinters littered the ground around Stiles' feet. He had been working on the door for about half an hour in a frenzied spurt, pausing only to rest his arm. His broken wrist was still throbbing, but it had dulled now that it was free of restraints.

Stiles had a plan; break down as much of the door with knife as humanly possible and then use one of the heavy black cases as a battering ram. It wasn't the most ideal plan, but at least it was a plan. He tried not to think of Peter returning, hands red with Allison's blood. It made his stomach churn, and he had to stop to breathe at one point. At the very least he was destroying the psycho's property.

Goosebumps rose along his arms from the air conditioning kicking in. He was still naked, but Stiles didn't care. He dragged the sharp edge along wood of the door, and ripped it out, bringing a huge splint away from the frame. His heart leapt when he saw a tiny hole in the door, peering out from the other side.

It was working! His pulse pounded with newfound enthusiasm. The blade in his hand was starting to dull. Stiles quickly replaced it with another one from the open case and continued his work.

Suddenly, the sound opening and slamming shut made Stiles freeze. He paused, the knife's tip touching the door. He felt cold all over. The sound of footsteps falling got closer to his position. Stiles choked down a sob; was Peter already back? Impossible; time hadn't passed that quickly, had it?

"Stiles?"

He stepped back, not daring to believe it. He kept the knife in front of him. The voice sounded like—

"Erica?" Stiles whispered.

The lock clicked open, and the door swung open, revealing Erica. She was pale and looked sickly; otherwise, it was her.

"Stiles."

The two of them stared at each other. Erica was breathing heavily, as if she had run a thousand flights of stairs. She was dressed so casually that Stiles was confused for a moment.

Stiles' grip on the knife loosened. Erica was looking up and down, her eyes now fixed on his exposed junk.

"You're naked" was all she said.

Stiles dropped the knife, and it stuck into the carpet as he lurched forward, wrapping his arm around her. Erica staggered back from the sudden weight, but soon she was hugging him back just as tightly.

"Holy shit," Stiles wheezed out. "Holy shit, you're here!"

"And you're still naked," Erica smiled into his neck. "A bit eager, aren't you?"

Remembering why he was naked in the first place brought on a fresh wave of sobs from Stiles. Erica rubbed circles into his back, cooing soft words into his ear as she lowered them both to the ground. Stiles was now on his knees, hugging Erica's middle.

"Shh," she said, planting a kiss to his forehead. "It's okay, sweetie. I'm here now. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Allison!" Stiles cried out. He pulled away from her, panicking.

"Don't worry, she contacted me first," Erica said, winking. It was as if she had read his mind.

"Thank God," Stiles breathed out. He wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering with relief. "Thank fucking God."

"She's a smart cookie," Erica said. "She sent me the address that 'you' sent. Not a clever plan, that's for sure."

"I need my clothes," Stiles replied, giggling in spite of himself. "Oh fuck, I'm so cold. It's like winter in here."

"Some people just can't help but to show off their wealth," Erica huffed out.

"Takes one to know one."

Erica gave out a short laugh before standing up. She held out her hands, and Stiles clutched them for dear life as she pulled him to his feet.

Vernon—what the hell?—was making his way down the hallway, an urgent look on his face. "We tripped a back-up security alarm," he informed them.

"Shit," Erica hissed, touching her stomach. "Why didn't we hear it?"

"It was silent, but I saw the control panel blink by the door," Vernon explained. He looked over at Stiles, keeping his eyes on his face. "How are you holding up?"

"Nothing a little bit of therapy can't fix," Stiles replied shakily. He swallowed down a lump as his eyes glanced over at the bedroom door. "Can you get my clothes? They're…" He pointed in the direction of Peter's room.

"No problem," Vernon said, walking into the room. He returned ten seconds later, holding Stiles' rumpled clothing. Stiles quickly pulled them on; he wanted to burn them because of what they reminded him of.

"Let's get out of here."

The three of them made their way to the elevator. Stiles pressed the button frantically, as if that would open the doors more quickly. He gave the room one more glance, and sunk to his knees. He threw up; it was mostly water, but it still burned his throat.

"Have you phoned the police?" Stiles asked.

Vernon nodded. "We have to take the long way up here, but I called them and told them about the address Peter texted to your friend. It was Peter, right?"

"Yeah, it was," Stiles choked out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I saw him with my phone. The papers!" he suddenly cried out, jumping to his feet. "Maybe he left them here!"

"Stiles, what are you talking about?" Erica asked.

Stiles' hands shook as he pointed at the hallway. "In—in the closet. It had a file. It said 'Urgent Termination' or something like that. It had all of Allison's family listed there, and some other people that I didn't know. But he wants to kill them!"

"We'll let the police take care of it," Vernon told him. He gave Stiles' shoulder a reassuring pat. "Right now we have to get you home."

"Yeah," Stiles said, nodding reluctantly. "OK."

The elevator doors finally opened up, and a great whooshing sensation filled Stiles' stomach. It sunk like a stone as a person stepped out, aiming the gun at him.

"Today's just not our day," said Peter, his finger resting on the trigger. He flicked his hand to the left, and shot Vernon in the shoulder. Vernon grunted, and he fell back, clutching his shoulder. Blood was dampening his shirt.

Peter stepped out of the elevator, shoving the barrel of the gun into Stiles' throat. "This is not how I wanted to end things, Stiles, but I'm afraid that we're going to have to cut things short."