He was still alive. Somehow. He'd been hoping for death this time, honestly, so the return to consciousness was a little disappointing. How long had he been out? …It didn't really matter now, did it? He wasn't usually one to give up hope, but at this point, he just wanted it all to stop.

The pain had diminished marginally. Either that or shock was finally starting to set in. Something crusty had dried on his chin and bottom lip. Blood, probably. That last beating had been a doozy. The concrete floor beneath his cheek was cold and damp. Faintly, he could smell the mustiness of his basement prison. Breathing was difficult – one of the men who were holding him captive had decided to practice his kickboxing routine on his ribcage, and his nose was almost full of dried blood.

How much longer was this going to continue? They'd held him for days now. Or was it weeks? He didn't know how long, exactly. Time passed differently when one was locked in darkness. He couldn't remember when he'd eaten last. Or slept. It had been several days; that much was certain. He wished they'd just kill him and get it over with. They weren't even trying to get information out of him anymore; he'd become a human punching bag.

He wasn't even sure of where he was. He couldn't hear any noises from the world above him. Was he even still in Chicago? Had anyone reported him missing? Was anyone searching for him? …Or had he been missing for so long that they'd given up hope?

The chains that kept him bound to the wall were biting into his wrists. He didn't have the strength to move himself out of this crumpled position, though, so he would just have to endure it for now. Tetanus wasn't exactly the way he wanted to go out, but it was probably his best option at this point.

Katya was dead. And it was his fault. He had failed her and countless other women. He'd gotten in over his head this time. Way over his head. He had underestimated Jack, and now he was paying the price. He had failed. An innocent woman was dead because of him. And who knew how many other women would suffer because of his failure?

He was so caught up in his despair that he didn't hear the small click of the door as it inched open.

A young woman peered cautiously through the slight opening that she had created, her long red hair spilling over her shoulder as she moved. The dim light from the hallway spilled down the narrow stairway and across the dank basement, running the length of the floor before rocketing up a wall. She barely stifled a gasp at what she saw. Her suspicions had just been confirmed.

A man was lying in a heap on the floor, dirty, battered, and bloodied. Chains ran from somewhere beneath his body up to the block wall. She recognized him! It was Katya's friend, the contractor that Jack had hired weeks ago! Was he dead?

Squinting, she leaned forward just a little more… There it was – movement! He was breathing! He was still alive! For now, anyway. He needed medical attention. But how? The police were looking for him, but she couldn't just call 911; Jack would have the man killed as soon as the police arrived. She couldn't leave him down there, either. What should she do?

Call her own 911, that's what.

Quickly, she eased the door closed, sprang to her feet, and ran down the hallway, heading for her locker and the cell phone that was buried somewhere in her purse.

...

Author's Note: Yeah, yeah, I know – I've got four stories going at once now. They'll all be updated/finished eventually, I promise.

Anyway…the plot and red-haired girl are mine.

This fic is gonna deal with some Post Traumatic Stress Disorder-ish stuff, so expect someone to be out of character for a while.