His breath sounded harsh in his ears.

He was staring at the clock and had been for hours.

He’d put all the closed circuit televisions away. He left the cameras running—recording everything that happened in that small metal room.

He had planned on waiting longer, but it was hard. He hadn’t realized how difficult it would be. He wanted Jack to think. He wanted him to ponder over what he had done. He wanted Jack to break.

One minute clicked by, one more minute that he’d waited.

His bedside clock read 2:03 am.

He’d taken a nap shortly after coming back up the stairs, recharging his batteries. The events of the day had worn him out. But Wayne had known that he still had some things to finish before he turned in for the night. Once accomplished, sleep had come easily—for a short time.

But now, he lay awake, staring at the clock and counting the seconds before he could go back downstairs.

He was curious.

He had to know how Jack was faring.

Leaping from the bed, he threw on a short sleeve shirt and padded down the stairs, his bare feet hardly making a noise against the wooden stairs.

He grabbed the key from the hallway cabinet. His trembling hands made it difficult to unlock the door, but soon enough, it opened before him and he entered the metal cell, turning on the lights.

He circled around Jack’s still form. It was marvelous.

Stepping closer, he lightly ran his fingers along Jack’s back, relishing the low sound of Jack’s disapproval. He slapped his hand sharply against Jack’s skin, enjoying the sound of flesh against flesh. He continued that way for several minutes, swinging the figure around, Wayne’s hands becoming red from the repeated contact. He moved to lighter contact, running his fingers lightly down Jack’s back and up his legs. Jack’s groans came from deep in his chest, but that was the only thing he could do to fight back.

Wayne was finally in control.

His nose twitched, catching an odor emanating from the hanging figure. That could be rectified easily enough, Wayne thought, moving instinctively to tug the mattress out into the hallway.

Quickly opening the cabinet door, he pulled out the hose and turned on the water pressure, opening the nozzle full blast and aiming it directly at the figure dangling from the ceiling.

A muffled howl erupted, but Wayne chose to ignore it, watching the form sway and turn as the water forced it to move.

Several minutes later, Wayne turned the water off and returned the hose to its proper place, locking the cabinet doors once again. He was enthralled by the sight before him, water still dripping from Jack’s limbs.

He didn’t hear any sounds though. Apart from the dripping of the water, the room was deathly silent.

For a minute, Wayne panicked. He surged forward, his bare feet going numb from the puddles of cold water scattered on the floor. His hands stretched out and grasped the swinging form, stopping its motion.

Jack’s body was freezing cold.

Fumbling slightly, Wayne slid his hand in between the damp leather straps, reaching for Jack’s neck, trying to feel a pulse. At first his fingers couldn’t find it, but as soon as he took a deep cleansing breath and calmed his raging thoughts, he found a pulse, strong and steady under his fingertips.

Wayne nearly sagged in relief. He wasn’t ready for Jack to die just yet. He had so much he still wanted to do.

Now, it was no longer a job, an assignment. Now, Jack was a hobby.

As his heart stopped racing, Wayne stepped back, his hands lingering, enjoying the power he welded. This session—although short—had exhausted Wayne, draining the last of his energy reserves.

Firmly locking the door behind him as he left, he switched the power off in the room. As an after thought, he reached for the special tucked away panel, pulling it closed, covering the door to the metal cell, camouflaging it behind the extra piece of the basement wall.

If Wayne couldn’t return to his basement lair, that small metal room would never be discovered. It didn’t exist on any blueprint, on any plans, or in anyone’s memory. Jack would effectively disappear, never to be found again. He’d disappear just as Wayne had years before.

His breath sounded harsh in his ears.

It was hard to breathe, every gasp of air a struggle.

How long he had been hanging here, he did not know. Time passed and was not acknowledged. Here, time was meaningless and eternal.

With every beat of his heart, Jack’s life ticked by—one heartbeat at a time.

He was cold. He was tired of fighting.

Jack had finally met his match.

Pain encompassed Jack’s entire world. From the leather bindings fastened too tight to the agony of a simple exhalation, anguish was the only thing Jack knew. It was overwhelming, all encompassing, and oppressive—smothering every thought, every hope, and every dream until nothing remained but pain and hopelessness.

Jack was alone and he was going to die alone, trapped in a never-ending cycle of agony and torture.

If this wasn’t hell, then Jack did not know what else it could be.

The feather-light touch along his back made his heart jump into his throat and he growled, the sound coming instinctively from deep inside.

The light touch was replaced by sharp slaps, sending agonizing waves of pain throughout his body. Like a swarm of bees, the sensations darted in and out quickly, leaving no part of his body untouched.

These slaps moved again to a lighter touch, caresses even, feather light along his arms and his back, across the cheeks of his butt and back up both legs. Jack groaned deeply, his face flushing red beneath the mask.

But just as suddenly as it had come, the touch vanished. Had he imagined that sensation, that feeling of human contact?

The shock of the cold water on his body nearly stopped his heart. The water coated him from head to toe causing agony to shoot through every nerve in his body. The water got everywhere, making it hard to breathe; hard to take even a single breath for fear that he might inhale the liquid and drown.

What did it matter if he died now or later?

He was already gone.

The only thing he’d miss was not being able to see the stars again for one last time.

And through it all, he could have sworn he could hear someone laughing—a manic, high-pitched laugh—muffled as it was through the leather mask that he had been forced to wear.

Vaguely, Jack realized that the water had stopped pelting him some time ago and he could now feel Wayne’s hands on him—on his back and his side. Then one of Wayne’s hands slid in through the leather straps, settling next to his skin in an intimate caress before searching for a pulse at his neck.

But Jack didn’t care.

Nothing mattered anymore.

Alone once again, with no sensations other than those caused by his bindings, Jack turned his mind off. There was no fight to be won. There were no witty remarks to be traded. There were no biting comments to be uttered.

There was nothing remaining but pain and grief for a life cut short.

A single tear tracked downward, only to vanish in the space of a single second.

He was done.

Wayne had won.