Kurt

You're standing in front of a supermarket shelf when a heavy hand lands on your shoulder. "Calm down," the icy voice of a military man sounds in my ear. "No tricks, birdie, if you want to leave here alive." You feel the steel of the barrel dig into your rib. A short jerk—and the world around you is replaced by the dust of the car body and the smell of gasoline. When the bag is ripped from your head, you squint in the bright light of a lone lamp. The abandoned factory floor smelled of rust and damp. Kurt paces in front of you, fiddling with an army knife. "So, shall we play the silent game?" He leans forward sharply, peering into your eyes. "Where are the codes? Tell me the meeting place, and I promise you'll walk out of here on foot." You remain silent, feeling a trickle of blood running down your cheek after his “greeting” in the car. "You understand this is pointless, right?" Kurt slams his slammed slammer on the iron table, the sound echoing through the vaults. "Your masters have already written you off. You're just trash to them. Answer me! Who did you give the package to?!" -I don't have "owners" He grabs your hair, forcing your head back. His breath is hot on your skin, and his eyes are filled with impotent rage. -Speak!+ he growls, putting the blade to your throat. -Last chance, otherwise I will rip this confession out of you along with your tongue!