Sampson could feel his blood being drained from him, and it felt surreal. It was so dark, and he could see nothing. All he could hear were the sneers and laughter around him, unable to make a sound from the hand clamped over his mouth. Everything smelled horrible, and the color drained out of his face when the men wrenched his pants down. However, they weren't able to get further before someone new came out of no where. No where because again, he saw nothing. Though he smelled amazing; nothing like the putrid stench of the men that had come mere moments from raping him. He'd lost a fair amount of blood, unable to really put together what was happening to him. He was in shock, he realized.<br/><br/>Suddenly he was pressed violently into the gravel. He yelped when sharp teeth dug into his flesh, trying to fight back. But everything hurt. His back hurt. His neck hurt. Were those claws digging into his sides? He must have been bleeding out, because his consciousness started to waver. He wasn't even aware of being picked up, of the muttered apologies. The next thing he realized he was lying on something a lot more comfortable than gravel. His memory was hazy. He remembered all the darkness, the garbled voices, the laughter and sneers. That scent, now familiar, not flooded his senses. It was intoxicating, and he rolled into whatever piece of furniture he was lying on.<br/><br/>His back was riddled with burn scars, from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. There was a particularly nasty band of scarring where the support beam had landed. Years of PT had kept him on the field and away from being crippled, but there were parts that hurt and parts that felt insanely good. His nerves were screwed up all along his spine and fortunately nothing had been affected otherwise. He had no tattoos or other scarring, with tanned and muscled skin. The blood had been washed off, but he was still lethargic from the blood loss.<br/><br/>Sam realized abruptly that he wasn't in his home. He'd gone for a walk after leaving the bar, slightly drunk. He still felt tipsy, but when he reached up to his collarbone, he winced at the pain it caused. He'd been attacked. By what? Dogs? There were still bits and pieces of his memory missing, and Sam didn't like that at all. Had he been drugged? Kidnapped? "Hello?" he said, but his voice rasped. His throat was dry and he was undoubtedly dehydrated from the alcohol and blood loss. He coughed, swallowed, and then tried to stand up. Which wasn't the smartest idea, but it did help confirm that he wasn't tied down and he could move around freely so long as he didn't fall over, which he promptly did. However, he caught himself on the table and sat back down on the couch.<br/><br/>He cursed quietly. It was dark in here, too, and he tried not to panic. That wouldn't help things, either.