A/N: Wow. What amazing feedback; I feel so warm and bubbly inside! How can I possibly say thank you enough times to everyone? Thank you all so much, for your reviews, adding to alerts/favourites, for even reading as it makes a huge impact upon me. Thank you, guys. Really.

Sorry for the long wait - blame school, coursework and exams! But since it is now the holidays, I think I can treat you all with updates!

Warning- contains swearing and images of strong violence/torture, so if you do not like, please don't read and then flame me after for it, as I did warn you.

Disclaimer: No, I do not own any CSI Miami characters or storylines. If I did, I would have one hell of a fun time. ;)

Tears fall. Shoulders shake. Eyes remain closed.

All he wants to do is to remain curled up and be safe; feel safe. But he cannot get away from the images burning in his mind; refusing to go away.

The Russian has done his job well - the torture will not leave any permanent marks on his body, but it will leave long-lasting scars in his mind.

He knows he should seek out help. Tell someone what happened - everything that happened. Even H only knows a small part of what actually went on in that basement.

But they don't care. Don't want to know. They're quite happy to remain immune from any guilt and to keeping their distance from him. After all, in their eyes, he is the guys who continually screws up, as demonstrated by his actions with the recent case.

The Russian, hearing Ryan breathing in, ready to talk, turns and faces him. His head is tilted to one side, rather enquiringly. The movement is so similar to something that Horatio would normally do that Ryan feels more determined to say what he is going to. The image of his red-headed boss feels him with a drop of courage which, under the circumstances, will aid him greatly.

He knows he'll need it.

He breathes out, flinching slightly as the pain this vital function has caused him due to his injured nose hits him. He steadies himself, and looks his kidnapper in the eye. The young CSI forces himself to remain still.

"No…No I can't do anything about that." He says firmly and in a rush, shaking his head to reinforce his point. Shaking his head isn't such a good idea as things momentarily go black and fuzzy, but he refuses to let on.

The Russian, who has since walked over to the iron table close to the iron chair which Ryan is currently tied to merely starts to remove his gloves in acknowledgement of Ryan's answer. He slightly shakes his own head before putting on new gloves, discarding the old, bloodstained ones.

"I warned you what would occur should you refuse me." The man says, his words once more sounding doesn't escape Ryan's notice as the man's accent merely serves to make the deadly words all the more harsh. The torturer searches on the table for something - Ryan has no wish to know what it is - and picks up something resembling…

Pliers.

Oh, holy Jesus.

A pair of fucking pliers.

Ryan feels his heart rate pick up once more, and begins shaking his head. This was it - he couldn't withstand what was coming to him, he knew that. He feels tears threatening to spill - the pain, both mental and physical and the exhaustion along with the continuous fear is simply proving to be too much.

- This can't be happening. Oh god, this can't be happening. H, where the hell are you? Please, please goddamn it, help me! -

The Russian is walking towards him, pliers in his hand. He is staring down at him and Ryan can just imagine the smirk of satisfaction that must be there, hidden behind that mask. It's not a pretty thing to think of and yet it's all he can think of right now. He certainly does not wish to think about the pliers, held in his torturer's hands and moving closer to him with every passing second.

The Russian pauses where he is. Maybe he can guess what is running through Ryan's head right now, and a faint muffled laugh issues from behind the fabric mask.

Oh, he knows, all right. Knows that he has Ryan cornered, right where he wants him to be. And he likes it.

This man makes a living out of things like this. Plus he actually enjoys this, too. Having the sheer overwhelming power of being able to inflict suffering on a person … Of course a sick and twisted man would enjoy it.

The thought is chilling. But not as chilling as the thought of those small and rusty looking pliers approaching him now. Try as he might, he simply cannot take his eyes off them. Such a small, insignificant piece of hardware which right now are more threatening than a gun.

-This can't be happening. This can't be happening -

"No, no. Stop!" The words escape his mouth. He can feel blood still trickling down his chin and neck, his head is still pounding and his body is on fire and aching. He knows he cannot cope with anything else. And now he has broken his private, silent vow of not begging; of only putting up resistance. But he has reached his breaking point.

He feels like a window from a car he once examined on a case a while back. During the accident, the window had been struck, but the glass did not break and shatter. It was broken, but the shards were somehow still held together. But with a single gentle poke, the shards had fallen part; the window had shattered.

Right now he has been tortured to his limits. One more action of violence, and his resolve would completely break and then he too would end up shattered.

The thought makes him laugh.

Why? Because the Russian succeeded.

He broke him. Made him shatter. Then for good measure he stamped on the shattered fragments, leaving naught but dust.

And dust is worthless, right?

He laughs some more, the harsh and bitter laughter becoming hysterical. It's also punctured by sobs. They rack him, cause his whole body to shudder.

"Shattered and worthless. No wonder they never wanted to look for me." How he manages to speak through his latest session -

No. Don't call it that! Anything but that. A session was what he called them…

-his latest moment of breaking down even he doesn't know. All he can do is think of that moment, over and over and over again. The moment, the exact moment, where he broke.

Yet he continues to laugh and cry.

Why? Because the Russian succeeded.

He broke him. Made him shatter. Then for good measure he stamped on the shattered fragments, leaving naught but dust.

And dust is worthless, right?

A shuddered gasp. Tears trickle down his face.

"Yes."

And lying there, curled in a ball, crying and holding his head in his hands, seeing nothing but that basement, that man and those pliers, it is then that Ryan Wolfe realises that he truly is worthless. He truly is alone.

He truly is broken.

You know you're worthless, Mr Wolfe? Your team have not even bothered to ring you, let alone look for you! They obviously don't care. That means one thing, yes?"

He feels the breathing of his kidnapper against the nape of his neck. He can almost see him smirk.

Blood drips down his face. He can barely keep his eyes open. His throat is hoarse and raw from screaming and cries for help. Help that never came. Probably will never come.

"You don't know what it means? Mr Wolfe, I am sure you do. Or… You just don't want to talk to me anymore." The Russian sounds like he is actually sulking at not having a reply. Ryan just coughs weakly.

The fist comes later than he had expected. The pain barely registers.

"It means you're worthless. You know you're worthless, right?"

And now, leaning against the rows of lockers, he finally answers.

"Yes."

So, the infamous tooth-ripping part comes next, something which I am really nervous about doing. Oh well. Let's see what I do!

Once again, a MASSIVE THANK YOU to all that have reviewed. Your kind words have compelled me to keep going and made me even more determined to ensure that this will be a successful fic.

This was rather short, but I needed to show that the Russian didn't only use physical torture, but he played mind games as well. Hopefully I'm getting the idea across that Ryan is actually losing it. Poor guy. And yes, Eric willpop up soon, no worries.