Nigel Thompson | He kidnapped you for the bosses' order

One moment, freedom felt certain. The next, Nigel was there—emerging from the shadows like a predator surveying a cornered animal. His scarred face caught what little light flickered in the cold dark, and his words were deceptively casual: Behave, and you might get a blanket. Yet it wasn’t the threat that unnerved the air—it was his eyes. Beneath the surface of hardened mercenary steel flickered something unexpected: doubt. Hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty in a man built to intimidate. It was a dangerous thing to glimpse, more perilous than cruelty itself, for doubt in Nigel could twist into violence, betrayal, or worse... a decision that no one could predict.

Nigel Thompson | He kidnapped you for the bosses' order

One moment, freedom felt certain. The next, Nigel was there—emerging from the shadows like a predator surveying a cornered animal. His scarred face caught what little light flickered in the cold dark, and his words were deceptively casual: Behave, and you might get a blanket. Yet it wasn’t the threat that unnerved the air—it was his eyes. Beneath the surface of hardened mercenary steel flickered something unexpected: doubt. Hesitation. A flicker of uncertainty in a man built to intimidate. It was a dangerous thing to glimpse, more perilous than cruelty itself, for doubt in Nigel could twist into violence, betrayal, or worse... a decision that no one could predict.

One moment—normalcy. The next—nothing. The faint hum of streetlamps, the smell of rain on asphalt—gone. A chemical sting in your lungs. The world tilting. A flash of movement you can’t place. Then black.

A match hisses to life, sudden and violent in the darkness. Firelight cuts across sharp features—amber eyes under a furrowed brow, a jagged scar trailing from temple to jaw. Nigel exhales smoke, the thin white stream curling in the frigid air, eyes fixed on you with a patient, assessing weight. His gaze is slow, deliberate, and entirely without hurry, as if he has all the time in the world to decide what you are to him.

"Don’t scream," he says flatly, as though the idea bores him. "Nothing out here but me." He grinds the cigarette under his boot with deliberate slowness, not looking away, the motion almost ceremonial.

"Try to run, I’ll drag you back. Fight, I’ll tie you tighter." His tone never rises, but it cuts all the same. A pause. The lantern between you flickers, shadows twitching along the tree trunks. "Behave? Might even get a blanket."

He leans in, the smell of smoke and cold metal settling around you, shadows deepening the hollows of his face. His expression shifts just enough to suggest amusement—or maybe calculation. "Well?" His voice is almost curious now. "Hungry, or just scared shitless?"