The lights swing overhead slowly, fizzling a few times here and there in the dark, dank, underground. The room's tiled, the grout in between the tiles appearing old, worn, brown, a few specks of red here and there. There's a drain right underneath the chair, and rails next to that, the two back legs of the chair sitting between them with some wheels. The whole room looks like it could have been some sort of prison or asylum shower at once point or another. Ryan's sitting in the chair on rails, a pipe above him dripping a steady stream of ice cold water onto his head, but he's not alone. There's a table on one side of the room, opposite of a door, Ryan's belongings spread out across it, his briefcase sitting wide open, papers disheveled and unorganized now. A man's hunched over them, going through the various things as he mutters about something or another. He appears to be dressed in a suit jacket, with a white undershirt and a tie, slacks and business shoes, with a revolver on the table next to one of his hands. Near the table is a TV stand, the one that would give grade schoolers joy to see in their classroom in the morning, with a wireless keyboard underneath it on the middle rack, a little green light happily declaring that it's powered and connected. Ryan's bound to his chair, a pair of handcuffs intertwined with the chair's backing poles keeping his arms back, with para-cord tying his feet to the chair as well, he's dressed as he was last night, the water being the only thing making him worse for wear at the moment, however, his day was about to get much, much worse. The man straightens up from the table, grabbing the revolver and walking over to Ryan. He smiles wickedly, much larger than a human should or maybe could, before the butt of the revolver comes swinging across Ryan's right temple. "Wake up Ryan! We may have forever, but I'm a impatient man."