He doesn't know how long he's been here. It could be hours, but it feels like days. Somewhere between the beatings and the fading in and out of consciousness, time has slipped away from him. He's forgotten what it feels like not to feel pain with every inhale, or to see out of his left eye. His hands and feet have gone numb from the tape tightly wrapped around them to hold him to the chair. His mouth tastes like copper and he's pretty sure he's got a left molar that isn't going to survive another punch to the jaw, but he's still breathing. And that can only mean one thing.

He's bait.

There's no other reason to keep him alive. No reason why they'd come after him. After all, who is Foggy Nelson? Just a low rent lawyer trying to scrape by a living. Trying to make Hell's Kitchen a little less hellish. He's no one important. But Matt. Matt's different. He always has been.

He hears the slam of a door and knows it's time for another round. Footsteps echo down the hall just beyond the black hole of the doorway and he tries for the hundredth time to free himself. To move himself. To fight back. But the goddamn duct tape keeps hold.

He grunts in frustration and pain, feeling another stab of what he's pretty sure is a broken rib at the movement. His white shirt and tie is spotted with blood and dust, but he forces himself to straighten up anyway. To face whatever is coming next the way Matt would. He hears the footsteps stop and he tries to peer into the darkness with his one good eye.

"You know," he says, his voice cracking from exhaustion. "You're wasting your time. He's not coming for me."

He can only hope it doesn't sound like the lie it is.