I regain conscience in flashes. At first, I remember being carried somewhere, and even try to resist—but I'm too weak. My head is dizzy and my eyelids are heavy. I'm unsure if this results from being knocked out, not sleeping well enough, or some drug.
The second flash of conscience stings me around the town hall, but it only lasts for long enough that I get afraid. The grip of the man—or men?—that carries me is too strong to resist.
When I wake up finally, it's not in a place I know. It's tiny—about eight feet in both dimensions, no more—and has nothing but bare wooden walls, an empty bucket in the corner, and a single lightbulb under the ceiling. The only door out looks thoroughly locked.
I sit up and hug myself. My hoodie is missing, together with my gun and my phone, but I'm shaking because of fear, not cold. Though it is cold there, too. I must be underground.
