shoot to miss

concrete

Immediately, he sets to inching the knife down from where it's tied tightly to his forearm, rubbing his sleeve against the wood of the chair he's tied to. It's a long, arduous process, but simple in and of itself. Hirofumi is glad that whoever kidnapped him was incompetent enough to forget to strip him of his weapons. And he's also glad that this level of incompetence narrows down who exactly had done the kidnapping.

Footsteps crunch on gravel from outside, heavy footfalls cracking through the walls of the building. "Yeah, we got the kid," a voice grunts. "Pain in the ass to catch up to. He's slippery. Yeah, yeah. I know, I'll call for backup if I need it." A shuffle of fabric. "Christ, he's a fuckin' high schooler. He's not an issue."

As the person approaches, the sound of metal screeching against concrete grows louder as well, an unpleasant, grating noise, like nails dragging down a chalkboard. From the hollow sound of it when it crashes against obstacles in its path, it sounds like a pipe or a steel bar.

Ah fuck, the bastard's got a weapon. And the knife, while closer to his hand, still feels miles away from where he can crane twist his wrist to catch it without dropping it on the floor.

Scraping metal comes to a stuttering halt in the space behind the door. There's the distinct sound of chains untangling before the room finally floods with light and cool, fresh air. It's dim outside– Hirofumi can't see far enough to tell if it's dawn or evening, only that the sun is barely peeking out from the horizon. He hopes it's still early morning.

His efforts to shimmy the knife down slow as he takes in his kidnapper, a tall, slightly overweight lackey dragging a long metal pipe behind him. He's old and greasy, like a stereotypical yakuza underling, picking up stray jobs for the extra cash. The man doesn't bother to shut the door, leaving it swinging wide open behind him.

This guy is dumb. Just from the looks of him, he's an amateur– everything from the rugged exterior to the corny dragging of the pipe on the floor– which would explain how Hirofumi still has two weapons on him despite having been unconscious for the past who-knows-how-long.

"Yo kid," The guy calls from across the room, waving a hand mockingly. His steps are steady and slow– he's taking his time, dragging out the encounter, almost like he's enjoying having a high school boy at his mercy. Fucking creep. "Have a nice nap?"

Hirofumi contorts his face into that of exaggerated fear, widening his eyes and frantically attempting to shut his mouth against the rag.

The man laughs, clapping a large hand on Hirofumi's shoulder when he finally gets close enough. "Listen, I don't like to beat up high schoolers like you. So let's negotiate, okay? Talk this out, man to man."

Hirofumi nods as best he can, straining against his constraints. The knife is so so close to his wrist. Just one more tug–

"Good boy," the guy grins, glee seeping into the edges of his consonants. "You're makin' things easy for me. How's this: I free up your mouth, you tell me where Chainsaw is, and I let you go. Easy peasy as that."

Rough hands card through his hair as the man leans in unnecessarily close to untie the remove the gag from his mouth, untying it from the back. His breath smells like stale cigarettes– it's the brand Kishibe used to smoke.

Hirofumi presses his chapped lips shut, grimacing at the feeling of a sore jaw. The rag left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, dry and metallic, and his lips were cracked from being forced open for so long. If he runs his tongue over his lips, he can taste blood, although whether it's from his extensive head injuries or just the cuts on his mouth, he doesn't know.

"Talk, pretty boy," the man orders, spinning the dirty rag around his finger before tossing it into the distance. He wipes his fingers on his pants. Gross.