A/N: Here's chapter 3! Thanks for all the support both here and on the meme! =)

Rated M for future explicit nonconsensual sex acts and sexualized violence.

His cheek stung. She had hit him. Chief Prosecutor Lana Skye had actually struck him, three times, and in the face, no less.

He might have been angry with her if he weren't so frightened.

"I suppose we're ready to move on to the next part of the exercise," Gant said, and Miles felt his heart plummet even further in his chest. What the hell was going on? He'd been asking himself that since the moment the police chief had first mentioned tying him up. Somehow, it had come to this - having his face slapped and his hands bound by the man who was supposed to be a paragon of justice and the woman he should have looked up to. It didn't make sense. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

He was really, truly afraid.

But of course, he wouldn't let it show if he could help it. "This is quite enough, Chief Gant! If you don't release me this instant, th-then I'll press charges against you for assault and false imprisonment!" A von Karma was perfect in every way. He certainly wasn't, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least try.

But Gant only laughed at his threat, a loud, ugly sound. "Now that's a case I'd like to see you try to make!" he mused. "I wonder if the chief prosecutor would even approve of you taking it to court?" He glanced knowingly over at Ms. Skye, but she didn't react at all and looked as if she were trying to ignore him. He turned back to Miles and went on, "In any case, Worthy, I don't believe I gave you permission to speak." Miles stared at him, mouth slightly agape. "Since I didn't specify it before, I won't punish you this time. From this point on, however, you are not to speak unless directly ordered to do so."

Miles blanched. "That-that's ridiculous!" he cried. "I-"

He was abruptly cut off when a much larger, leather-clad hand slammed against his already bruised cheek, sending him staggering to the side and then collapsing onto his knees. For a moment, he was dazed; pain pulsed through him like a warning alarm, and his vision wavered. A trickle of something slid from his nose down to his chin and then dripped onto the floor, bright and red. He wanted to wipe it off his face, smooth his palm over the blossoming bruises, because he knew they were unsightly, but his hands were still bound, and the scarf wouldn't give. He could feel tears prickling his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

"I don't believe that was an order to speak, Worthy," came Gant's voice from above him, low and dangerous. Miles kneeled at his feet, gasping, blood from his nose pooling in the crease beneath his lower lip before dripping into the carpet. He wondered, without really caring, how the man intended to hide such incriminating evidence. But what did that matter when, right here and now, he was getting away with torture and imprisonment, entirely unchecked by the chief prosecutor herself?

Gant was searching for something in his suit pocket, and a moment later, he fished out a white handkerchief and pressed it against Miles's bloody nose. Miles cringed away from the touch but remembered, angrily, to keep his mouth shut. His eyes burned with indignation, but he didn't dare speak, and Gant, as expected, only chuckled.

"That's a good look for you, Worthy," he said as he applied painful pressure with the handkerchief. "But I intend to take even that from you by the time this lesson is complete. There's still far too much fire in your eyes for my liking."

He sponged away at his nose for several moments longer before finally pulling away. The handkerchief was no longer white and pristine but now smeared with rose-colored blood. Gant stood up and tossed the soiled cloth into the wastebasket as he passed it on his way to his desk. He then took a seat in his chair, looking almost regal in how he filled it entirely, though more in the way of a ruthless despot than a doting monarch. His eyes moved lazily over Miles, who refused to avert his own and so met his tormentor's head on.

Finally, Gant said, "Lana, would you be so kind as to bring him here?"

Miles had almost forgotten about her. She stepped forward from where she'd been pressed against the wall and approached him. Without meeting his eyes, she reached down, took hold of the collar of his shirt, and coaxed him back to his feet. Miles stumbled slightly, feeling dizzy from the blood and rather off-balanced without the use of his arms. He leveled her with his fiercest glare, but still, she refused to look him in the eye. Instead, she grabbed him by the arm and more or less dragged him forward until he stood before a very pleased Gant. She then gave him a quick shove to the small of his back, and he landed hard on his knees, far too close to the police chief's lower half than was comfortable.

"Now, Worthy, are you ready to begin your next exercise in humility?" he asked cheerfully, and Miles glowered. Humility? he thought, anger coursing through him. More like humiliation!

"I-I'll have your badge for this," he growled, the words tumbling from his lips before he could even think to stop them.

The blow landed across his right cheek this time, and though Gant's left hand packed much less force than the other, it was enough to whip his head to the side and probably leave a sizable handprint there.

"That's twice now that you've disobeyed me, Worthy, and that's two times too many," he said as Miles bit down on his tongue to keep from hissing in pain. "Therefore, I think it's only appropriate that our next exercise punishes that nasty mouth of yours."

And then he leaned back in his chair and spread his legs wide, motioning to the space he'd created, his face lit up by an eerie smile. "Go on, little Worthy. Put your head right here so I can control that disobedient mouth of yours."