The Hand that Feeds.

"Fuck you."

The man struggled against the zip ties that locked his wrists into place, each thrash and writhe of his body against the chair caused the chair to scrape the ground. He snarled and arched, desperately trying to free himself, yet every attempt ended in vain. Catching his breath was difficult - each breath forced his lungs to expand into broken ribs, and his anxiety certainly didn't help. He wheezed hard, his chest heaving, choking on air that wasn't there.

John Constantine continued his struggle.

He bared his teeth. His wrists were tied behind his back. The tie weaved through the metal chair's back rest. They were tight enough that the plastic dug deeply into his skin until the flesh bulged on either side. Still, he tried to pull his hands free. Panic set in. His chest burned. He could feel his limbs turning numb from lack of oxygen. Colors danced in his vision. Constantine felt his vision sway, the beginning stages of semiconsciousness forcing him to close his eyes tightly.

Focus, John, focus. Control your breathing. You've been tied up before.

Yeah, when there are safe words, you prick.

The figure stood over him, shrouded in a black mask. Never seen the bastard in his life, not until his fist smashed right into his face, and then the kick to his chest. John glared at the man when his vision was stable enough to perceive.

John spat into the dark towards the figure. He saw the man's lips curl into a sickening smirk as he stepped closer. John's struggle picked up as the man's fist raised again. He should've braced for the impact. Should've moved as far away as possible, but he didn't. The force of the punch snapped John's head to the side.

The impact crunched against his jaw and blood spilled from his mouth. Bloody saliva came from John's mouth and dribbled down his chin and onto his pants. His head hung limply before being forcefully lifted by a gloved hand that snaked into his hair. More silence from the man.

John's face was battered, his lips trembling as he struggled to make eye contact. The world spun around the man in black. Consciousness slipped from him again, and his eyelids threatened to flutter shut. The pressure in his head and jaw was so overwhelming that every muscle twitched in his face in agony.

The hand in his hair let go, letting John's head drop with his chin resting on his chest. His breathing slowed to a whistling rhythm. John kept his eyes shut. The only thing keeping him awake was the sound of the man's words cutting through the heartbeat he could feel in his jaw.

His head throbbed when he heard that calm, grave voice. "I'll ask you again." The shrouded figure leaned down in front of him so he could speak low and threateningly into John's ear. "Who do you work for?"

John's lips parted into a weak grin. His teeth, previously nicotine-stained, were now orange-red with blood. His head lifted just enough, where he inhaled slowly before whispering, "Fuck you."

He expected an explosion of anger and to be struck again, with a hope that this one would be just enough to send John off into the blissful embrace of inertia. Instead, John's noncompliance was met with a sinister half-laugh. The man stood upright again, rolling his shoulders back, readying himself to continue this interrogation. John kept his eyes shut and counted the seconds with a bated breath. Any second now, any second until-

Crack.

Another punch, this one sending both John and the chair he was bound to the ground. John's body hit first with his head hitting the concrete with a sickening thud. He felt the impact reverberate through every cell of his body, causing muscle spasms in his bound limbs. John made a noise between a groan and a gurgle as blood pooled in his mouth and out of his nose. Every inch of his body ached. His brain felt broken.

The masked man walked over to where John's crumpled body lay and used his boot to force John's head to turn. His gaze was partially closed and unfocused, and all he could see from the darkness of his vision was the man's gritted teeth. The heel of his boot ground into John's face, smearing blood from his nose.

John moved his head back and away from the boot with what energy he had. He struggled to breathe through his nose as only blood could escape. He opened his mouth to say something, but words wouldn't form on his tongue. John couldn't breathe, couldn't even force himself to tell the man what he demanded to know. He swallowed back a wad of his own blood and coughed his airway clear. For a second, the two made eye contact. That boot lifted again and John whimpered.

Everything went dark.