Model-face blinked blankly at Kian for just long enough for the first stirrings of hysterical terror to bubble up in his throat. His mouth was literally going to get him killed, what an absolutely horrible joke. Just as he had begun re-evaluating all the life choices that had lead to this very moment, the blonde man laughed (a sound that was far too pleasant to fit with the current set of circumstance) and abruptly disappeared back up the stairs without another word.<br/><br/>Kian stared after him for a split second before he directed his eyes up to the ceiling where his shackles were suspended above him. The heavy chain was bolted to the concrete foundations of the house (he assumed it was a house, anyway) above, both the bolt and fastener looked shiny and new. No rust probably meant no weaknesses there, and from the way dear Lydia had been struggling prior to losing consciousness (also known as getting knocked the fuck out) Kian probably didn’t stand a chance when it came to trying to rip the chain free. Sure, he had a little muscle, but Kian wouldn’t weigh 60 kilos soaking wet as Stiles so often reminded him - Incredible Hulking his way out of here was probably not an option.<br/><br/>Gingerly he rotated his wrists inside the metal cuffs - they looked to be military or police issue and were adjustable to fit the wrists of their occupant. The skin was tender and swollen from where it had rubbed against the unforgiving edges of the shackles while he’d been out cold, but even so there wasn’t much in the way of room for him to maneuver. Slipping out would probably mean dislocating his thumb at the very least, possibly breaking it. Sure, that would be a better end than a gruesome death (‘<span style="font-style: italic">Do not think about that now</span>’ Kian told himself resolutely. A panic attack would be the furthest thing from helpful) but the logistics of such a plan were dubious at best. First off, how would he even dislocate his own joints? He wasn’t shackled close enough to one of the support pillars to attempt to smash any part of himself into one. Secondly, even if he did somehow manage to break his hands to try and escape, there was zero guarantee that would it would work - he’d just be hanging here in excruciating pain.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF80FF">“Don’t bother.”</span></span>A teary voice advised. Thomas was watching Kin’s careful inspection of his surroundings.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF80FF">“There’s no way out.” </span></span><br/><br/>Kian snorted.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“So you say.”</span></span>And went back to reviewing the possibilities. Maybe he could lift himself up to get his feet against the foundations where the chain was bolted? Legs were generally stronger than arms, after all...<br/><br/>Thomas made a high pitched, strangled sound Kian supposed might have been a laugh.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF80FF">“So I <span style="font-style: italic">know</span>. I’ve been here over two weeks. Lydia’s been here for more than a month. We’ve tried everything.”</span></span>Another of those weird, choked off sounds.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #BF80FF">“We’re all going to die down here.”</span></span><br/><br/>Kian’s eyes snapped sharply back to the older man.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“He’s killed someone? You’ve seen it?”</span></span>Confirmation could never be good in this sort of situation, but nor was blissful ignorance. Better to be prepared, better to know what he could expect. Thomas opened his mouth just as the first of the four locks on the door at the top of the stairs clicked open. Thomas teeth abruptly clicked together and he cowered in upon himself once again. Long legs made their stately descent down the stairs once more. He was balancing a plate and a glass of water with a straw in his hands and humming something softly beneath his breath.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF">"I hope you like potato stroganoff,"</span></span><br/><br/>Kian watched him warily and shrugged.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“Oh sure, who doesn’t like potato stroganoff?”</span></span>He replied dryly. He couldn’t help himself, the situation was too outlandish not to be snarky - he was chained in a basement and being waited on. That said, the plate did smell better than anything he’d eaten recently. Noodles under 50 cents were a staple in student life and Kian couldn’t cook worth a damn anyway. He’d been banished from using the stove, and even the microwave was designated to be ‘supervision only’ after the last incident with aluminum foil and butter chicken.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF">"I should have asked, do you like rye?"</span></span>He nodded in response, but he yearned for the cool glass of water and ice.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #80BFFF">"Oh, and the most important part."</span></span>The glass was held up, straw thoughtfully pointed toward him. Kian watched a droplet of condensation from the ice track down the side of the glass and fall to the floor.<span style="font-weight: bold"><span style="color: #00BF80">“You’d tell me if it was roofied, right?” </span></span>He asked. At the end of the day, Kian was 20 years old, made of soft skin and fragile bone - sarcasm was his only defense.