His hands shook, an incessant, bone-deep tremor that made the cheap plastic lighter a monumental challenge to operate. He tried to light a cigarette, failed, dropped it. A hiss escaped his lips, a sound like a deflating tire. The burn in his stomach was a famished beast clawing its way out, its hunger absolute. Every nerve ending screamed, twanging like overwound piano wires. The cold sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, even though the room was stifling, thick with the smell of stale coffee, desperation, and something else – something metallic and acrid, like fear.

He dragged a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his clammy skin. Thirty years old. Thirty years, and this was it. This was the bottom of the abyss. The floor of the ocean, where the light never reached and the creatures were blind and monstrous. He'd told himself, over and over, that he wouldn't sink this low. That he couldn't.

Then Mom died.

The memory hit him like a physical blow, a phantom punch to the gut. Her small, frail body in the hospital bed, the steady beep of the machines that had eventually flatlined into an unbearable silence. Her hand, cold in his, that last whisper about being strong, about getting clean. He hadn't been strong. He hadn't been clean. He'd drowned in the grief, and the drugs had welcomed him, warm and familiar, a poisonous lullaby.

A sob escaped the bound figure, small and muffled, and Fred flinched. He hadn't anticipated that. The sound was too innocent, too pure for this filth-ridden house, for this situation. It burrowed under his skin, a tiny worm of shame that wriggled in a corner of his heart still trying to beat with something other than panic.

"Hey," he rasped, his voice a dry, unused thing. "Hey, it's okay, I just need something from Alex, that's all...."

He didn't believe it. She didn't believe it. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears behind the blindfold, were mirrors he could almost see, reflecting the monster he'd become in the flickering light of his own shaking consciousness.

The woman squirmed softly in the chair, clearly terrified. The duct tape securing her ankles, wrists, and torso to the chair creaked slightly with her movements. The headphones playing loud rock music muffled her sounds, but Fred could still sense her fear – a tangible thing in the air between them.

After some minutes he finally managed to light the cigarette, drawing a shaky lungful of harsh smoke. It did nothing but scratch his already raw throat. He needed the real thing. He needed the sweet oblivion, the warmth that would spread through his veins and silence the demons for a precious few hours.

"I need to make a call," he mumbled, more to himself than to her. He looked at her phone. His thumb hovered over the contact "BigBRO". This was it. The point of no return.