The smell of stale sweat and cheap disinfectant hung heavy in the air of the Bethnal Green lock-up. Sam, his hands and feet bound tightly with duct tape to a metal chair, swallowed hard, the sound amplified in the sudden silence. Across from him, Ashkan, a towering figure in a leather jacket, loomed, his self-professed 'Iranian Al Pacino' glare boring into Sam's skull.

"You muppets borrowed fifty grand of my money," Ashkan's voice, surprisingly calm, cut through the tension. "My fucking money, to shoot a feature film. Ten days you said, then blam, video on demand. Am I lying?"

Sam's voice, when it came, was a pathetic squeak. "No... look if you just give us a bit of time..."

Before he could finish, a stinging blow from Ashkan's open hand sent Sam sprawling, the chair rattling but holding firm. His vision swam, the lock-up spinning. "When it's your cue to fucking speak, I'll tell you, alright?" Ashkan sneered, adjusting his shirt, as if preparing for a performance. The show, Sam knew, was just beginning.