❝ this is your bodyguard for the next little while, agent brendon urie. ❞
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𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄.
𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐂𝐔, 𝐏𝐑𝐄-𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑.
𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄...
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THE DULL THROBBING IN YOUR HEAD WAS WHAT WOKE YOU UP. You had to fight to part your eyelids and when you finally managed to open them, the harsh white light cascading down from above forced you to close them again.
A low moan just about succeeded in crawling up and out of your dry, scratchy throat; when you tried to lift your hand to rub the area, you realised that you were in restraints.
Opening your eyes, your forehead creased as you took in the sight of your arms bound and secured in place by metal straps on the armrests of the chair you were occupying. The chair was made from metal too, and the architecture of it told you that it had been created to subdue something a lot stronger than you.
A glance around the room offered the view of a camera perched in the right corner, a table to your left with a random arrangement of objects on top of it, and a large – most probably two-way – mirror ahead of you. You willed your brain to ignore the rhythmic thumping in your cranium and attempt to recall how and why you ended up where you were now.
Your memory was understandably hazy, and all you were able to remember was the sound of glass shattering, a gas cylinder, and your name spilling from your bodyguard's lips in a desperate cry. Still, even without the aid of your memory, you were able to decipher where you were, and who had brought you there.
Directing your gaze at the mirror, you hardened your face as much as you could.
"Come on, you bastards," you howled, "This is what you wanted, isn't it? You have me! So why are you hiding?"
There was nothing but silence for five minutes, after which the door opened up, and a man in a suit swaggered in. The manner in which he carried himself made it clear that he was someone of importance, and the cocky smirk on his face showed that he knew it too.
He looked to be round about late fifties, with dark hair that was decorated with grey streaks, and creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. His voice was deep and gruff when he spoke, with a hint of a British accent hidden in it, and you shuddered involuntarily.
"(Y/N) (Y/L/N), what a pleasure. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I'm-"
"Doctor Jacob Ross," you groaned, shaking your head and chuckling a little at the absurdity of the moment, "Fucking hell; you're supposed to be one of the good guys."
