August Twelfth, 11:59 PM. All I remember is the party that night. Jason's dad was off on business, trusting the mansion of the house to his second son. I should've known better, I admit that. There were rumors, and whispering of gangs or even Mafias. Jason never confirmed or denied them, never commented on if his Father was as dangerous as people say. He was my friend, my best friend. There was no reason to believe he was involved in an underground crime ring, not when he was so carefree and easygoing. I only met his Father once, a serious and intimidating man that merely grunted upon being introduced to me during the start of sophomore year in High School. nearly three years ago. It was the first time I saw the warehouse-like house my friend lived in, the mansion was unrealistically huge in ways I only saw in movies. I should've got the hint of something unlawful when there were guards with guns walking about; when I was thoroughly searched before even entering the gate of the driveway. The excuse of protection I was told by Jason was enough for my naive mind, blissfully ignorant of the world around me.

During school that day, Jason was hyper. Talking nonstop about a party he was planning after his father, Mr. Phillips, left town for a business meeting. Bragging how he'll have the house to himself with his older brother going to the meeting as well, his sister leaving the state with his mom. I should've questioned him, recalling the vague thought of the seemingly hundreds of guards I had seen on the property. Instead, I allowed his excitement to feed my own and readily agreed to go to his house after school. I texted my father, warning him I was going with Jason and wouldn't be back until the next day. Considering myself lucky that I'm eighteen and my parents trust me and allow me to do my own things as long as I don't get into trouble. Now, I'm regretting that.

At Jason's home, it was quiet. At first, I didn't see any of the guards except the group at the gates that filter people onto or away from the property. Jason had a bounce in his step as he cockly walked through his house, giving orders to maids and butlers to start preparing for a party. At the mention of his plans, I noticed the shadows in the corners of rooms shift and spotted the glints of metal from high-powered guns. The later it got, the smugger and more conceited my friend got. He was ordering the gate to remain open for everyone he invited to be allowed in, calling for strippers and raiding his father's alcohol cabinet. This was the first time he was the "Man of the house" as Mr. Phillip had said before he left, and he was eager to show off to the whole school and then some. The security side-eyes him, yet followed his orders for more booze and food.

9:30 PM is when the party started, vehicles filled with high schoolers and college siblings or anyone that caught word of it, entering the gates and flooding the long driveway. Music was blasting, vibrating through my body and beating with my pounding heart. Sweaty bodies crowded in every room, dancing and making out, getting sexual. Jason was thriving, encouraging everyone and drinking from a bottle of aged moonshine he found locked away. He didn't care if things got broken and laughed loudly at crashing or glass-shattering sounds. He was uncontrollable. However, with alcohol running through my veins and my actions not my own, I recall doing the same. Dancing with an older woman at my best friend's side, drinking and smoking whatever I was given. This lasted hours, living our best life and acting years older than we are. I don't remember much after smoking a few joints and downing bottles of booze, my mind and sight were fuzzy and distorted. That said, I remember how the party ended with a hauntingly clear memory.

11:30 PM the door to the master bedroom was busted open, a herd of security guards running in with guns drawn. The two college women in the bed with Jason and I, squealing in shocked fear as they cover their naked bodies. Jason cursed, sitting up angrily and beginning to cuss out the guards. I could only stare, wide-eyed and paralyzed in horror, sobering the quickest I possibly could at the sight. Mr. Phillips deceptively calmly walked into the room between two large muscle bears of men, intense eyes revealing his raging storm of anger. The way Jason instantly paled, words dying in his throat and skin draining to a ghostly white, told me exactly what my fight or flight instinct told me; I was going to die tonight.

Without a word, Mr. Phillips had us grabbed and tied up tightly. The women were wordlessly, routinely, killed with a single bullet in each head. Blood, bone, and various gore splatter onto my face, even as I flinch away in automatic terror of the gunshot. Jason was begging his father, confident act out the window as we were dragged to the empty downstairs. The previously crowded to suffocating rooms, are now a wasteland of trash and spilled drinks, glass shatters, and broken furniture. Paintings were graffiti, questionable fluids covering various surfaces, and holes in walls where a fight most likely broke out. Jason's brother was in the middle of the living room, glancing around and shaking his head at his younger brother's stupidity. Eyeing our naked bodies, hands tied behind us as we're shoved harshly to our knees on the hardwood floor. The older brother has his group of bodyguards behind him, staring blankly over his shoulder at us and Mr. Phillips.

"You are a disgrace." Is the man's first words, staring at his second son in disgust. Standing in front of us, glaring down with black eyes narrowed and a scowl. "You have destroyed your mother's house, and threw a party, that allowed two hundred million dollars to be stolen and three of my men killed."

Jason's eyes go impossibly wide in fear, stuttering. "No- That's not-"

Mr. Phillips scoffs, shaking his head with a nasty snarl. "Drop the act, Son. I've been told of your behavior tonight."

I watch, stunned, as my friend growls and glares piercingly at the guards surrounding us. Raising his voice and seemingly unfearing consequences from his father. "So what?! That amount is nothing and you don't care for three stupid dudes! I wanted a party so I got one! I can do whatever I want! They should listen to me!"

His brother, Kyle, winces. Stepping back away from the older man, as if the added space between them will keep him out of the angry father's ire. My body goes rigid, blood rushing through my ears and my heart drops to my knees at the glance of Mr. Phillip's gaze falling on me. Crossing his arms over his wide chest, the suit he wears crinkles at the elbows and his tie goes taut with the movement. His voice is dark and threatening, nostrils flaring dangerously. I feel a shiver crawl down my spine at the pure hatred he speaks with. "You are too arrogant and impulsive, a spoiled brat of a Son. You've made me regret the little trust I put in you, and your Mother is outraged by the state of her house. I will not put up with that, I will not have such a disobedient son."

My friend rolls his eyes boldly, struggling with the rope chaffing our wrist raw. He grunts in annoyance when pulling and tugging the binds don't work, merely inflaming his skin with the constant rubbing. "Whatever, old man. Just get these fucking things off me! I haven't anything wrong!"

I gasp that the harsh slap he receives, Jason cries out from where the force of the hit knocks him onto his side. His father squats down to his son, grasping a handful of his blond hair to yank the younger up. Growling out through gritted teeth, jaw tensing. "You let two hundred million of my money be stolen! I don't give a shit if it was one fucking dollar, that isn't the damn point!" Jason squeezes his eyes shut, wincing in pain at another jerk to his hair. "The point, Son, is that my child can't be trusted to care for my business. To watch over my fucking money that I use to keep a roof over your useless head, to keep you safe!"

What have I gotten myself into?! I remember thinking, trembling while watching the scene unfold. Jason's eyes tear over, the cruel grip on him forcing them to dampen. Mr. Phillips is vicious, the angerest I've seen a single person. He lands hit after savage hit on his son, punching with the fierceness of a raging bull. Ignoring the shouts of begs from my friend, the cries, tears, and blood raining down on his shiny black dress shoes. I drop to my side, unable to look away as Jason is reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor, curled up to avoid the harsher punches. Cuts and bruises bloom on his skin, spots quickly beginning to swell in sensitivity and scarlet blood. No one stops the man, not his firstborn and not the other men surrounding us. They just watch, emotionlessly, blankly. Kyle avoids staring at his brother, eyes flickering around to gaze at anything else. He glances at me, pity in the depth of his stare then quickly looks away. I'm too scared to open my mouth, pure fear consuming me to the point I don't think my voice box would even work to speak.

This is where I find myself at 11:59 on a warm August night. Witnessing the father of my friend brutalize him for thirty minutes until he is nearly unconscious, the only sounds he can make are grunts of agony and whimpers, and sobs. Writhing on the floor, clutching his ribs and jaw. Mr. Phillips is breathing heavily when he finally stops, knuckles bloody. Not sparing his son or me a single glimpse, heaving an annoyed sigh. "Put them in the basement. Single-cell, if they wanna fuck together they can share too." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he groans sufferingly. "Call my wife, I need her to stay away so this mess can be cleaned. She'll fucking kill me if she comes home to this."

I stare in disbelief, my mind can't fathom how this man can order such a thing and beat his son as he did, then fear his wife. It's as if he knows she would kick his ass and knows better than to test her. However, wouldn't she be angry at him for hurting one of her sons? Her child? I never met the woman, but Jason always acted like she was the best mother in the world. He praised her cooking and warm hugs; often said he would protect her with his life. I don't have time to question, suddenly shoved up onto my feet and roughly pushed through the house while a man throws Jason over his shoulder. We're taken through the house where people are already cleaning various messes, maids scrubbing and sweeping, men carrying out broken furniture, and butlers collecting the trash littering the floors and surfaces.

No one glances towards the four men escorting me to a door off to the side of the stairs, revealing damp cement stairs leading down into a dim cellar. As soon as I enter, my body heaves on a gag at the sour, coppery, and piss scent that overwhelms me. It smells like a sewer and death, rotten and overpowering. The squeak of a rusted cell is heard, just before the breeze of Jason being thrown past me onto the stained, hard floor is felt. I'm shoved in without my friend even landing yet, stumbling over my feet as the cell is locked behind us. The men are merely a dark silhouette in the orange flickering light hanging in the cell while they move toward the door, complaining of the smell. With my hands still bound, I can't get the proper balance when I attempt to stand, using the grimy rusted bars of the cell to help get to my feet. My body is severely shivering in terror and the freezing temperature, the cement, hard floors, and walls providing no warmth.

Jason's unconscious body is laying rag-dolled in the far corner, a testament to how much the man that was carrying him didn't care; tossing my friend a further distance than needed. In the low light, I can't get a read on how bad his injuries are yet it would be no shock if he has broken bones or internal bleeding. A shaky sigh is pushed out of my quivering lips and my eyes flicker through the dull surroundings, searching for anything to cover my bare body with. Only see faint spots of stained fluids on the surfaces around us, dark and dried, but smelling of blood, shit, and piss. It's fruitless, I know. I am not getting a blanket or clothes, not even boxers, and socks. This is a punishment, one I will pay for with my life even if it's unfair. The party was Jason's idea, I had no say in what was happening or his actions. How was I supposed to know that much money would be stolen and the house would be trashed that badly, especially when Jason gave no sign that anything was wrong?

I'm his friend, but he doesn't talk to me about serious stuff. I didn't know he had a sister until she picked him up from school months into Senior year. He said everything would be fine. He said his folks wouldn't care, that they had enough money to fix any possible damage. He said the guards would watch over everything. They watched over, alright. I scoff, they reported to your dad, asshat! They didn't do shit! Now I'm going to die. Pacing the length of the cell, I find it doesn't do much to warm me up. The cold floor on my feet quickly begins to numb my toes, I need to stop and blow hot air on them and hold them in a fist every minute. The shaking worsens, my very muscles trembling without pause causing a growing ache throughout my limbs.

It doesn't stop, a consistent shiver that feels like my veins and nerves are quaking. My eyelids get heavy, exhaust filling quickly as whatever drugs and alcohol I took becomes apparent again, the adrenaline draining from my system in one overwhelming go. Slumping down against the wall next to Jason, I throw my care to the wind and just curl around his body for whatever warmth he could provide. He's passed out, and I already basically fucked him during the four-way we had. I don't care if we're naked, I need to try to stop my body from going into shock or, at least, stop the shaking. As soon as my eyes shut, I feel my strength give out and my conscious mind slip.

I'm being jarred, something is digging into my stomach and ribs. I can hear mumbled voices, my ears slowly coming back into operation. It's not freezing anymore, I realize in slight shock. Shaking my head, I struggle to force my eyes open and after a few tries, blink them to focus through the haze. Everything is upside down, my vision filled with a rather round ass in a pair of slacks, of a stranger that is carrying me like a sack of potatoes. My arms dangle uselessly and my legs are held firmly together by a strong bulky arm. Catching sight of some furniture, I snap my head up as far as possible. I'm back in the living room, just entering it from the glimpse of the doorway we pass. Abruptly, I'm seeing blurs of colors as the man carrying me throws me down roughly. I whimper at the impact of crashing onto the floor, already knowing the aches in my bones will bruise. Slowly, weakly, I shift onto my ass.

To my right, Jason is awake and instantly, I grimace at the sight of his swollen face. Both grey eyes are swelled up, and discolored with various fluids caked in the folds of skin. Little slices and cuts cover his cheeks and lips. I notice he is a mess of dried blood, tears, and spit. He doesn't look at me, observing his father in front of us on a seemingly new couch. Mr. Phillips is on his phone, humming peacefully as he waits for the call to pick up. Glancing at the lock on the wall to my left, my heart skips at the time revealed. 3:20 AM.

"Ah! Mr. Gra-" Mr. Phillips's cheery greeting is suddenly flipped into a grim wince, the sentence never finishing. The volume is turned up, but I only make out a man's voice with no words. However, it's quite evident that this man is unhappy with being called upon this late.

Jason jerks, the minute tremors of his limbs increasing noticeably, eyes widening and I quickly snap my attention between father and son. My friend gulps, unable to sit still even with the clear pain of his restlessness. He knows who his dad is talking to. Has to be. Right? The name of the man never was heard, not in full. Yet the way Jason is reacting gives me the idea he has a vague thought of who it may be. Briefly, he catches my curious and scared gaze, the whites of his eyes blown in dark red and nearly closed. I believe I'm imagining things when he lips, 'I'm so sorry.' Jason doesn't apologize, never has. If this was to be some comfort or attempt of forgiveness for encouraging me into this mess, it has the opposite effect. My heart thumps loudly in his ears, my eye's once again dampening with unshed tears as I feel genuine horror fill my mind.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. Graves." Stiffly Mr. Phillips speaks the words, unaccustomed to the idea of being sorry. Yet seemingly nervous enough to give the man he called one, which makes me wonder who, exactly, this Mr. Graves is. "But I have a situation I'd like your expertise with,"

Curiously, I observe the men around me. All are standing at attention, watching the man carefully and two in the corner are whispering under their breaths, shaking heads, and grimacing. Over my shoulder the man behind me cracks his neck anxiously when his boss bites his lip and pulls the phone away from his ear, the speaker sounding loudly with an angry growl. Slowly, Mr. Phillips begins to talk again, making certain to be calm and serious, professional even. "Mr. Graves, I understand very well- but you must understand I will pay you lavishly for your work. All I ask is you come to my home and pick them up, you can do whatever you would like afterward with this job."

All he appears to get is more vexed snarls over the phone, which merely makes the older man snap his finger and gesture for the scotch on a new table by the hanging TV. Instantly, a maid is pouring a small amount into a square cup with one round ice ball to serve Mr. Phillips. The man takes a sip, clears his throat, and silently sighs, trying to remain at peace. "You can pick the amount you are paid, and I will personally see to it that your lady friend has more security to add to the men you have protecting her. Mr. Graves, I respect you highly and wish to keep you as my business partner. I have no want to get on your enemy list."

The phone is silent for a mere moment and I check the clock again. 3:30 AM. The phone is pulled away from his ear, a single word being aggravatedly barked loud enough to be heard. "Fuck!"

Mr. Phillips hangs up shortly afterward, a pleased smirk curving on his lips and a spark of sadistic glee in his eyes as he looks down at us. Leaning forward on his knees, he tilts his head at his son broodingly. "I do hope you know, Son. I had great hope you would learn, and be a good Second to your brother. I had plans for you both. Now, though. I don't see them coming to light."

Jason glances at his father, avoiding eye contact and jerking his head in a short nod to acknowledge the words. Humming, Mr. Phillips nods as well, mocking his son with the gesture. "You know who Mr. Graves is, don't you?" He only gains another light nods. "He is comin here to remove you and your moronic friend here. I have permitted him to do with you as he likes, which, knowing him, will be the most painful. I find I do not give a shit. You have proven you are not the child your Mother, or I, raised. The moment he walks into this house, you are not my son."

My friend squeezes his eyes shut the best he can, lowering his head further down and stifling a sob. Quickly, I look away when his father turns his impassive attention to me. He sighs, scoffing. "I recognize you, boy. And while I regret you getting involved with Jason's bullshit, I cannot allow you to live. Not only have you witnessed, and heard, too much. You are an accessory to his actions, one of the reasons I lost money and three good men. That is unfortunate."

With that, he stands and leaves the room, humming a tune to himself. Stunned, I blink at the floor. Never had I thought I'd be in this situation, and never had I felt so hopeless. I'm confident my life is going to end, more so now he had plainly stated that fact. I will never see my parents again, won't talk to them or laugh at my dad's jokes. My life is being cut short because I thought I'd be a normal teenager and go to a party. Because my best friend begged me, encouraged me, and promised me everything would be fine. It's a mocking lesson I should've learned, know who to trust. I just learned it too late; on the day I die.

4:15 AM. In a daze, I process the men around us beginning to position around the room armed with more firepower. In corners and at doorways, men stand straight and tense, expressions blank and unreadable. Mr. Phillips walks in, studying the room and nodding curtly. My breathing hitches when the wide front doors swing open, a group of ten to fifteen armed men and women walking in behind a single man with a deep, angry scowl on his face. His dress distracts me for a moment, gray jeans and a black shirt under a leather jacket aren't what I expected. All the men in this house have been wearing suits, professional and business-like. This man seems more like a biker. Growing stubble covers his jaw and upper snarling lip, eyes threateningly dark in fury. He's tall and muscular like a basketball player, intimidating and frightening.

He doesn't even spare our naked, bound bodies a glance, glaring at Mr. Phillips and crossing his arms. I get tremors from his voice, a new wave of terror crashing down my veins at the gruff snarl of a deep, southern accent. "Twenty-six fucking Million. If your guys fucking touch, talk, or goddamn breathe near her, you can count them as fucking dead. Not a damn word of her to anyone else, if she becomes a target for literally anything. I will make my threat a reality; no head, shit in the fucking neck."

Jason stares like he sees a ghost, pale and bug-eyed at the man. His brother moved to stand behind his father, as if anxious to have this man's attention turned to him. Mr. Phillips smiles pleasantly, though it's strained by the greeting he got. "I promise she will be unbothered, I trust my men and yours. Is that all you want for this? I can pay much more, after all, I did interrupt your time with her."

Mr. Graves, I'm assuming, rolls his eyes, scoffing. "I don't need your fuckin money, Vin. Why am I here?"

With a grand gesture, Mr. Phillips waves his arm towards us on the floor, guiding the man closer. The trembling starts up again at the feel of those dangerous eyes scanning me for a long moment before flicking to Jason, an aggravated huff sounding. The man squats down in front of us, large hands casually hanging from his knees. The leather of his jacket crinkles, and a faint squeak from its folding is heard as he moves. I avoid his eyes, fighting the urge to throw up. He growls, suddenly irritated again. "Fucking kids. You called me here to take a couple of damn kids you could have dealt with?! You better fucking explain before I blow this joint up!"

I flinch when he pushes himself up with quick, harsh, movements, snapping at Mr. Phillips. The man steps back, fists clenching at the tone he was spoken to in. However, he doesn't raise his voice or show annoyance, trying to console the man with a light smirk. "In the eyes of the law, they are adults. They have trashed my house and allowed a sum of money to be stolen during a stunt at a party. I want them to suffer, and you are the best around with your skillset."

Mr. Graves shakes his head lightly, thoughtfully. Those dark eyes flicked over Jason and me once again, considering his actions. His tongue slips out to slide over his bottom lip, a cruel smirk twitching up in the process. It's oddly sensual like he enjoys, and takes pleasure in knowing we're watching and waiting for his answer in horror. Then he nods, kissing his teeth as his eyes narrow. Demanding, "Make it Thirty-Five Million, since they're so young. Wouldn't wanna feel guilty now would I?"

Mr. Phillips chuckles along with him, giving a signal to one of his men that instantly start moving further into the house. "I'm safely assuming you want to be paid now?"

"You assume fucking right." Mr. Graves scoffs, casting a fleeting disinterested glimpse down to us on the floor, before bending his lower arm up and waving his fingers in a slight motion. Two women step up and past him, each holding thick sacks in their hands. I only have time to see his roguish smirk as he accepts a suitcase, hear his devilish chuckle and the mockingly playful, sexual words. "Let's get this show on the fucking road, my sexy as fuck woman is waiting at home for me to pound the ever-living fuck outta her tight as shit pussy."

Then a sack is over my head, encasing my vision in black with gold sparkles of filtered light through the material. I feel a light pinch in my neck, falling to my side with my eyes slowly shutting shortly after. My body is weak and exhausted, not processing that my mind is shutting off. The only thought going through my head is that I'm doomed, wondering what this man will do to us.

It must be hours later when I can open my eyes again, the sack missing from my head. I'm unbound, hands are free and raw. Gently rubbing them I search around, taking in my surroundings, everything is dark and ominous, with shadows of objects on the walls, and there are no disgusting scents like in the cell Mr. Phillip put us in. Rather it smells clean, similar to a hospital of chemicals and bleach. Shifting a bit, I startle when my feet knock into a cold metal bar. Investigating by bringing my hands to my sides and in front of me, I feel the evidence of a cage. From the small spaces between the bars and how confined I am, I safely assume I'm locked in a dog cage. My body is hunched over, yet I have enough space to shift about. Hearing a groan to my left spooks me, gripping the bars and straining my vision to see through the dark.

"Jason?" I whisper, earning another stressed grunt.

"Where are we?" His voice is barely audible, a mumble and I can hear his skin shift along the bottom of his cage as he moves.

Before I can answer, we hear a heavy door opening, metal sliding smoothly along the floor. We look toward the direction it comes from, the dim light flooding past the door and the pair of legs that is revealed. My eyes squeeze shut when bright lights suddenly pop on, gold sparkles overtaking my vision for a moment. Upon slowly fluttering them open, I'm shocked at the place I find myself in. It's a huge office, a large dark brown desk sitting at the end of the room by the door with deep red plush chairs and couches at the front of it. The walls are charcoal, blank with nothing on them for decoration. The front of the room reminds me of a CEO's office of an expensive business, but the back is a completely different story. The walls are bright white, the floor cuts off from the hardwood floor to a gray cement expanse with various drains installed. On the walls are weapons and devices, from knives to saws, to power tools, and things I vaguely recognize from my history books that spoke of tortures. At the side walls are cells that remind me of livestock kennels, tall but slim in width. Each of the ten has chains and shackles hanging in them. This is a modern torture chamber. Every surface is clean spotless, the light bouncing off of reflections.

"How the fuck are you boys doin?" I jerk at the voice of Mr. Graves, flinching around to stare at him. He is standing over our cages, hands tucked in his pockets casually. Dressed the same, but now he has a proud grin on his lips and those eyes are sadistically observing our reaction to the surroundings. "Like my office? I fucking love this room! Made it myself, mighty proud of it. Shame I can't show my fucking woman, she'd freak."

We can only stare at him, fear consuming us. He rolls his shoulder, leaning his spine far back I almost think he'll fall. Staring at us with a thoughtful gaze, the grin he has never faded just turns vile, stepping closer to squat down and make eye contact with each of us. He nods softly to himself as if just made a decision, gesturing to Jason he scoffs. "You won't last, I don't like my damn toys already broken when I get them. I'll have fun," He laughs, "oh will I, but not for long."

Looking at me he hums, shaking a finger at me when I press myself into the bars away from him. "You though- you have potential. I'll save you for last and see what happens"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and glances at the time. Clicking his tongue, he sighs, mumbling. "Damn, already five." Gazing back up at us, he smiles charmingly. "Let's get started. Remind me about my fucking hot woman, will ya? I gotta back to her. Left her all needy and I gotta take goddamn care of her fucking needs, like the good as fuck boyfriend I am." He does a crude hip thrust, chuckling. "So, you do me that fan-fucking-tastic favor, and I'll reward you."

Jason glances over to me, nodding his head to listen to the man. I take his word for it, he knows more than I do about the man in front of us. From how he speaks, I know he has done this before and loves it. He will have no issue with hurting us if we don't listen to his words. I can only hope I don't get on his bad side, more than I already seem to be.