It is just a shape, barely more than a shadow, that dangles from the concrete block wall. A brief disturbance of the air, not quite a noise, just enough to show that the shape might once have been human. A slow and steady drip, too thick to be water; life leaking away.

He stands in the arch of the doorway, admiring the fine cruelty of his work. Long, thin, a streak of ink against the buzzing blue light of the hallway. Smiling, always smiling. He loves his job.

"So," he says conversationally, his voice in the muffled grey as startling as a gunshot. The hanging shape twitches in alarm; it is conditioned, now, to associate sound with pain. "What do you have to tell me, Jacob?"

Another ruffle of air; an attempt at a cough. The dark man waits, eternally patient. "Th-the girl," a choked whisper, barely audible, the sound of rock in a grinder. "E-Elizabeth. Sh-she's the way…"

Drip drip drip.

It's hypnotic, the man muses, like a love song or a lullaby. There is nothing more from the broken shadows, but nothing more is needed. The man briefly considers snapping the pathetic creature's neck, but it wasn't worth the effort. Death is but a breath away, waiting quietly in the wings.

He strides away, pulling out a phone, Jacob Phelps already forgotten behind him.

Breathe, you son of a bitch!

A choked-off scream.

Then everything is quiet, so quiet. The inky silence is exquisitely beautiful. He cannot remember ever feeling this overwhelming peace.

...edding...up!

Sound intrudes, unsought, unwelcome.

...got to...up, Red!

Breath inhaled, knives in his chest. He coughs, painfully; panic chasing the beautiful black away like it had never been. Eyes open, gritty and sore — something is wrong…

"Where is she? Where is she?"

Staggering, lurching, dragging like a lunatic drunk. Blood runs from his ear down his neck like thick honey to pool at his collarbone.

Regrouping, rearming, steeling himself. Only her, he reminds himself, that's what matters now.

"I just told you the animals are loose. They're gonna kill you out there! What are you gonna do?"

"I'm going to get her back." This he knows, no matter what else happens, no matter what he has to do.

But he doesn't.

"How does it feel to have something people are willing to die for locked up in that pretty little head of yours?"

Her head pounds, ears ringing, vision still blurred.

"I don't know anything!"

"We'll see."

Two small words. How can two small words strike such bone-deep terror into her heart?

And she's right to be afraid.

Caught, bound, trapped; suffocating and drowning all at once. Burning, it burns in her nose and throat, and there is no air to be had and she's blind.

Relief, brief and cold, a rush of air. A harsh voice pounds at her.

"The Fulcrum. Where. Is. It?"

She tries to answer; chokes instead on water, mucus, bile that floods her throat. She hacks and gasps, tears running freely, a black, star-speckled sky filling her vision. The voice drums on, but dimmer, faded behind the sound of her own harsh breath.

Something about memories, about opening her head to dig through what is inside.

What she could hear now, instead, over the man, over her troubled breath, is herself. A mantra repeated, over and over, louder and louder, Red, Red, RED!

Talking to Braxton has enraged him; the thought of that ape rampaging through her brain both terrifying and infuriating. He longs to have the creature's throat under his hands.

Keep moving, he just has to keep moving, keep talking, keep doing. Money, threats, men — whatever it takes, whatever it takes to see her safe again.

Time a rabid dog at his heels.

She floats, just like the nice doctor told her too. Whatever those drugs are, they are lovely; she hasn't been this relaxed in…

Tension snaps back, hard, there's something… she is there… Lizzie?

What do you see?

Lost in memory, the fire burns through her mind, chases her, devouring. Her mind, her body, fight each other; the memory of fire rips and tears and hurts, it hurts her. Lost, she is lost.

Voices in the background, new voices shout, rage.

No, no, why is everyone so angry? Hide, Lizzie, hide, stay safe.

Bang, bang, so loud, over and over; it's not the fire, it's something else. Beeping like a shriek in her ear. Lizzie is crying, screaming, running from the new voice, long and thin and dark, and hide, Lizzie, hide.

Her blood pressure's through the roof. She's in v-tech.

Her head hurts. The fire is gone, everything is gone; dark.

The crunch of his fist in the informant's face is sublimely satisfying. He tries to hold the feeling, keep it with him, let it fuel him as he keeps moving, keeps moving.

Braxton was nothing but a puppet, a shill, but there is still great satisfaction to be had in watching his head explode like a dropped watermelon. But as the shots fade away, the building fills with a silence that chills him to the core.

Dembe behind him, always the faithful, they run — up stairs, around corners, up and in and up and in.

It is anti-climatic to burst through the wide doors and see nothing. Nothing but an empty, echoing cavern of a room; a drained pool filled with medical equipment scattered and lost.

He is too late, too late. She is gone, gone, gone.