You sit, running your fingers through the ash. Soft. Feathery. Only a little gritty.

The black dog sits in front of you.

"You keep telling me that," you muse. "Come and see. Come and see. Come and see what?"

The black dog simply appraises you.

You stare into those red eyes, blindingly bright, see yourself reflected, suspended upside-down. "Have I seen it? Have I seen... what you want me to see?"

The black dog lowers its beautiful head.

"... No? Then... then what? What is it?"

The dog rises, turns, and walks away.

Back into the flames from whence it came.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You open your eyes.

You look down, confused at the white lines covering you. Then you realize that those lines are bars of light, cast from the venetian blinds on the window.

You rise up, stiff from sleeping in a sitting position. Rubbing your neck, you look down, see Sarah still snoring softly on the couch.

You smile. Just a little one. You reach down and tousle her hair gently. She rolls over.

Once you've closed her apartment door behind you and walk to your car, your smile fades.

You didn't tell her the truth about him.

She didn't need to know.

And if she somehow finds out, well—

You can always REGRESS, you think grimly, your ribs pulling close to hold you together.

0-0-0-0-0-0

A low, deep thrum.

You press your ear to the ground, and listen.

What is that?

0-0-0-0-0-0

"Wake up, Kyle."

He groans, his chin against his chest.

"Come on. You're fine. Wake up."

He groans again, but slowly, agonizingly, lifts his head. His eyes flutter, unfocused, before finally locking blearily on to you.

"Wha... what..."

"Good. You downed enough hydrocodone to kill a bear."

His eyes open wider, and he looks down. He immediately begins straining against his bonds, shaking the chair. "What... what the fuck. What the fuck! What is this?"

"A chair."

He looks up at you, blinking under the fluorescent lights, really seeing you for the first time. "You...?"

"Me."

"What is this? What are you doing?"

"Nothing, yet." You glance over to the toolbox set next to you.

"What the fuck—"

"Let's go ahead and get started. Have you seen Damien?"

He stares at you, mouth working. "What? What does that have to do—"

"It has to do with everything right now." You put a reassuring hand on his knee. He tries to pull away, but has nowhere to go. "Come on, answers."

He slurs as he speaks. "He owes you money, right? Over the pills. That's it. I get it. Yeah. But that's not me, man. That has nothing to do—"

You squeeze his knee. "Just answer, Kyle."

He looks everywhere but you. "I don't know. Can you get me out of this?" He flexes against the bonds—electrical wire, mostly. A few power cords you cut up. "I'm not gonna do anything, man, we can just talk—"

"We did talk."

He stares again.

"We talked. Got drinks. Came back to your place. Drank more. Followed the doctor's orders. Talked more. You didn't tell me what I wanted." You gesture all around. "Now we're here. I'm trying a more hands-on approach."

"I don't know—"

"Yes, you do," you utter, drawing dark patience from an unknown well. You reach behind your chair and drop a plastic bag full of cellphones in his lap.

He looks stricken.

"See, I call Damien, and he doesn't answer. He moved a while back, you see. Up and left. That's not what friends do."

"I... I didn't—"

"But look at you, having entire conversations over text. Ah," you say, holding up a finger as he opens his mouth. "Pseudonyms. I know how Damien texts. He texts like he talks. It's a bad habit."

He turns his face away. He's looking at his own basement like it's a gulag.

"Let's look at this exchange... it's been going for what, month-and-a-half, two months? About the time he disappeared on me." You nod to yourself. "So, Kyle. You going to let two friends be reunited?"

"Fuck," he mutters to himself. "I don't—"

You sigh, lean over, and open the toolbox. Your fingers ghost over the pliers, wire cutters, screwdrivers, hammer—

"Hey wait no no no wait listen just listen—"

You pull out the hammer, and let it hover over his knee.

"Fuck just listen man FUCK—"

You bring it down.

The acoustics in here are good. His howls have just the right amount of reverb.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You move to his fingers, his nails. Then his toes— you were smart enough to remove his shoes before lashing him to the chair. You don't know anything about torture, really, but you read some stuff about 'enhanced interrogation techniques' on the Internet and winged it from there.

You could have gone with a car battery and jumper cables and saltwater, but... too excessive.

It's been only ten minutes, and he's sobbing, shaking his head back and forth, repeating "I don't know" like some kind of protective chant.

"You know, Kyle," you say mildly, rolling a screwdriver over your hand, "I don't think you're sober. That's why you're being difficult." You frown. "I'll give you some time."

You get up, walk over to the lightswitch by the stairs. "You want the lights on, or off?"

"Don't—"

You plunge the basement into darkness and walk up the stairs.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You look in Kyle's bathroom mirror. You're bit of a mess. But you brought a change of clothes, just in case, so it works out.

More waiting. What are you going to do for half an hour as that idiot comes to his senses?

You move through his house, hands in pockets, humming. You've already ransacked the place. No evidence, nothing to go on.

With a sigh, you sit down on his overpriced leather couch and pick up a PlayStation controller.

Generic Shooter 3000 will have to do.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You glance at the clock.

Two hours have passed. You're not so good at keeping track of time, anymore.

Shit. You could REGRESS, but... nah.

You descend back into the basement, flip on the lights. Kyle gives a start.

"See, look at you. You look better already."

His eyes are wide, afraid, but... there's a little defiance, in there. Interesting. "Why?"

"Because is a good enough answer."

"You," he spits, "you're fucking crazy."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." You sit back down, crossing your legs. "Do you feel like being cooperative?"

He starts naming names. Name's you've never heard. You tell him to slow down as you jot it all down on a notepad. You'll cross-reference these through his phones later. "Uh huh… uh huh. Anything else?"

"I don't know where he is."

"You don't know where the guy you buy pills from is? Come the fuck on, Kyle. That's not good business partnership. And you and Damien are friends. Like how me and Damien are friends. How would you feel if someone wouldn't tell you where your friends were?"

"I haven't—"

You reach behind the chair and pull out the Smith and Wesson. A chromed, long-barreled piece for target shooting, mostly, but a suitable safe queen for empty-lifed yuppies like Kyle.

He gapes at it. "How—"

"You showed it to me. You wanted to play Russian roulette, but with six shots. You almost blew your brains out." Well, he did, one time.

You prod his crotch with the muzzle. He flinches, sputters.

"Some people are into that kind of thing," you say offhandedly.

His voice edges into a whine. "Come on, man—"

You level the barrel at his forehead. "No, you come on. You know. I know you know. You know. Tell me. Tell me."

"I don't—"

The crack of the gunshot is too loud. You clamp a hand to your ear. "Ow."

You look up, glance at the smoking gun. The back of Kyle's skull and some spare brain is slowly sliding down the wall. The shock of red is a nice departure from the dreary grey of the basement, you find yourself noticing.

Trigger was lighter than you thought. "My bad," you say. You REGRESS.

0-0-0-0-0-0

This is hell.

Kyle doesn't know shit.

The list of names—which you've memorized—is all he has to offer. But you'll take it.

You're not proud to admit it, but you let your anger get the better of you—bashing his head apart with the hammer, REGRESSING, stabbing him in the eyes and chest with a screwdriver, REGRESSING, shooting him in the gut and watching him writhe and spasm.

And then REGRESSING.

Immature. You're acting like a child, and you know it. Stop.

You taste something in your mouth. Slick and bitter.

Your gums are bleeding.

You sit down, exhausted. "You're a real piece of work, you know."

His eyes are closed. His chin rests against his chest. "Damien said... there was something wrong with you." His voice is odd, now, since you subtracted some teeth from him.

You pause. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"He said you lost it. You changed. You changed and now you do crazy shit you would never do."

"Nothing has changed."

You swallow the blood in your mouth, and REGRESS.