Mikey's head throbbed, a dull, pulsing ache that seemed to radiate from his very core. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his vision, his surroundings slowly swimming into focus.
He was in a room, bare and cold. The walls were a dull, industrial grey, the concrete floor stained and cracked. The only furniture was a rickety metal table and a few folding chairs. The only light came from a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the space. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the drip, drip, drip of a leaky pipe.
He tried to move, but his body wouldn't cooperate. It was then that he became aware of the pain, a searing, white-hot agony that seemed to consume his entire being.
His face felt wrong, swollen and misshapen. His tongue probed tentatively at the gaps in his teeth, the taste of blood thick and coppery in his mouth. But it was his leg that truly horrified him. His jeans were soaked through, the fabric clinging to his skin. He didn't need to see the wound to know it was bad.
A movement caught his eye, and Mikey's heart seized in his chest. The man who had knocked him out loomed over him, his face twisted in a sneer of disdain.
"Wakey, wakey, sunshine," he growled, his voice like gravel. "You've really gone and fucked it now, haven't you?"
Mikey tried to speak, but all that came out was a whimper. His mind was reeling, a kaleidoscope of fear and confusion. What was going to happen to him? Was this how it all ended?
A hand clasped the man's shoulder, long, gloved fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket. The man stepped aside, revealing a woman. She was striking, with porcelain skin and shoulder-length platinum blonde. But it was her eyes that truly captivated Mikey. They were a piercing, jade green, and they seemed to stare straight through him.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Her voice was low, tinged with an accent Mikey couldn't quite place. Russian, maybe.
Mikey nodded, his whole body trembling. This woman, as beautiful as she was, terrified him on a primal level. There was something about her, an aura of danger that seemed to crackle in the air around her.
"I... I still have the package," Mikey managed to croak out, his eyes darting to the man, silently pleading.
The woman sighed. "Yes, we have the package. But you didn't complete the delivery, did you?"
The implications of her words hit Mikey like a punch to the gut. He'd failed. He'd fucked up the one thing he was supposed to do.
The woman shrugged off her jacket, revealing pale, toned arm, with the other completely condemned in layers of tattoo ink. In any other situation, Mikey might have found her attractive. But now, all he could feel was a sickening sense of dread.
"Are... are you the Apollo Twins?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.
The man barked out a laugh, the sound harsh and grating. But the woman silenced him with a look.
"No," she said simply. "I am not a twin. And I am not Apollo."
Mikey didn't know whether to be relieved or even more terrified. If these people weren't the Twins, then who were they? And what did they want with him?
The woman began to gather supplies from a nearby table. Cotton, disinfectant, scissors. Mikey's heart raced. Were they going to torture him? Cut him up and leave him for dead?
He began to struggle, his body fueled by pure, blind panic. But the woman was on him in an instant, her hand cracking across his face.
"Be still," she snapped. "You'll only make it worse."
Mikey went limp, his chest heaving with silent sobs. The woman began to cut away at his jeans, peeling the blood-soaked fabric from his wound. The pain was excruciating, and Mikey had to bite his lip to keep from screaming.
"This is going to hurt," the woman warned, before dousing the wound with disinfectant.
Mikey's world exploded in agony. He howled, his body convulsing, tears streaming down his face. He wanted to die, wanted it all to be over.
But through the haze of pain, he heard the woman's voice, calm and steady.
"Why were you late?" she asked.
Mikey stammered out a response, a half-formed lie about traffic and road closures. But the woman just shook her head.
"Don't lie to me," she said, her voice like ice. "We know everything. We see everything. The last thing you want to do is try to deceive us."
Mikey's heart sank. They knew. Of course they knew. They'd probably been watching him this whole time, tracking his every move.
"I... I stopped to see my girlfriend," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
The woman stood abruptly, her face an unreadable mask. "I'm done here," she said, turning to leave.
Mikey's mind raced. What did that mean? What were they going to do to him?
"Your phone," the woman said, pausing at the door. "You lost it in the chase."
Mikey's blood ran cold. His phone. He hadn't even realized it was gone. But now, the full implications hit him like a freight train.
He started to shake, panic rising in his throat like bile. "No, no, no," he muttered, his voice cracking. "I need that phone. I need it. Please, you have to find it."
The woman just looked at him, her gaze impassive. "That's the real problem," she said. "Without that phone, you're a loose end."
The man loomed over him again, his grin predatory. Mikey opened his mouth to beg, to plead, to promise anything.
But the man's fist crashed into his face, and the world went black. As he spiraled into unconsciousness, Mikey's last thought was of Jenna. Beautiful, kind Jenna. He'd promised her he'd be careful. He'd promised her he'd come back.
But as the darkness claimed him, Mikey knew he'd broken that promise. And now, he was going to pay the price.
***