Every part of his body was on edge. His skin from the chill of the air licking at him. His stomach from the self-inflicted cuts. Both of his lungs burning from hyperventilation. Every single one of his limbs trembled in anticipation and adrenaline, leaving him a shaking mess. Was it his vision that was going black or was it just the darkness? Or could it be a bit of both, the darkness and impeding unconsciousness? In despair Chrys clutched onto the shoddy handle of his shank, his lifeline. The only thing offering protection even if it was in the slightest, and the only thing keeping him conscious and aware. Indentations from the spark plug's shape were being painfully pressed into the surface of his skin, but he didn't dare alleviate any of his grip in fear of letting it go. To him in that moment, nothing was worth more than his own survival, and if it meant holding the bulb like that then he would.<br/><br/>The man shook his head with a smirk; even with the hazardous threat, Niegel wasn't bayed. Chrys didn't think that he would be able to strike wariness into Niegel even if he<i>didn't </i>look so weary. Without any pause in his step the man lunged for him, arms extended to latch onto him. A ravenous scream erupted from his own mouth, and Chrys slashed at random, wishing for the best. For a few seconds he felt slight resistance in the shank's path, before he was throttled into the ground. Forest detritus lodged itself into his shirt, jabbing into the exposed part of his back where the shirt had been raised. A slick, moist thumb dug into his wrist, pushing the button that made him release the bulb. It was the familiar slickness of blood, and he could already guess where it came from. Somewhere on Niegel's arm he had managed to cut him.<br/><br/>Niegel began chastising him, for the wrong turns he had made in his defensive strategy. He should've hidden the shank from view, so that the soldier wouldn't have known about its existence.  Chrys should've lured Niegel in with a false sense of security, that he had won and He should've aimed somewhere fatal, anywhere better than the arm. If he had planned better in his assault, then perhaps his kidnapper would be drowning in a pool of his own blood right then. Fortunately for Niegel only, he had prepared poorly. His free arm he used to push back against Niegel, but the explosive strength that he thought he was mustering came out as feeble shove. The courage he had managed to summon left him, and he fell into panic. "Get off me!" His scream rang out through the trees, a grievous echo left in its wake. Maybe, just maybe, someone would hear it and come to save him.<br/><br/>Pulses of electricity ran through his body as Niegel straddled him, pinning him against the ground. Feral growl came from his own lips, of frustration, aggression, and fear. Frustration that he was pressed into the ground, anchored by the weight of the other man on top of him. Fear of dying in the forest, stark white from exsanguination. Yet he resisted anyways, despite the beat of his heart and rage of his limbs pushing more blood out of his body. If he couldn't flee, then he would go down fighting. Every hair of his body was bristling to battle. Chrys didn't want to let the man have his way so easily.<br/><br/>A hand planted itself on his chin, as Niegel leaned in close. The man spoke with an unnervingly giddy tone, about how he and his father had used to play the same, predator and prey. It was the same that Chrys and his father Ronald Collins had played as well, an army game of tracking and stalking. The only difference was that Niegel and Ronald fucked afterwards. Chrys knew what the man was insinuating by that, and through the darkness he could see the lascivious glint of his kidnapper's eyes. Goosebumps formed over goosegumps, and Chrys was reminded again that not only was his life to be feared for. Even if his body was hypothermic and near lifeless from the blood loss, that was unlikely to be enough to stop Niegel from pushing himself onto his body. A hole was a hole, even if it belonged to a pseudo corpse.<br/><br/>Chrys bucked his legs, attempting to dislodge the man to no effect. The other man was firmly seated where he was and steady to boot, and more than capable of handling the shaking he could produce the way he was now. "Get off, get off, get off.... get off!" He could feel himself losing his voice. It was becoming harder for him to form words, his tongue sluggish and dumb. His body was on a decline, and he was losing strength and energy. His bodily functions could only persist so much, but starved of energy and blood he would lose consciousness in time. The precious time Chrys had now, as alert and mobile as he could be, he couldn't squander. With his free hand, he formed a fist and slammed it into Niegel's bloody hand, directly on his cut.