He could remember two specific instances in which his breath had been labored in this way. Once when he'd gone too far up the Green with his brother. The Mountain air pierced through his lungs like a blade. The other when he'd taken the bullet to the chest. Instinct made him lean forward as much as his shoulder would allow without searing pain. Short, shallow breaths kept him on the edge of consciousness while he tried to focus on the flickering light again.

It was his only method of orientation. Half blind, he'd given up the struggle to keep his right eye open as it swelled shut. He'd stopped trying to tip his head to the left to hear as well. The ringing that filled his mind only alleviated itself when his head was forced backward to choke down water which barely made it past his lips. It tasted like rust and earth, like they'd bottled up part of the concrete and tried to feed it to him.

He'd learned that the man with the fat clammy hands was called Grant. Broad but stupid, like an obedient hound, he was responsible for the majority of the heavy lifting. Brandon's body had gone back and forth from pillar to chair and taken a beating that would've broken most men. He knew he had his training and not his will to thank for that. Grant had tried to clean up the blood on Brandon's face as if sitting across from the small man required some kind of formality. He'd learned that man's name was Carl and judging from his accent, it was short for something Italian.

"Not very many people worried about you," Carl began as he scrolled through Brandon's phone. "This one seems to be leaving a lot of voicemails though, you want to hear them?"

As the phone was tipped forward, Brandon turned his face away. He didn't need to look to know what the other man was talking about. Ashton had told him a thousand times that he needed to put a pass lock on his phone after one too many accidental switches at the bar. The sobering realization that this memory wasn't how he wanted to think on his friend flung him right back into the present.

"We can save that then," the other man said as he tucked the phone in his pocket. "You know that you can make this stop at any moment, don't you?"

Brandon remained quiet, rolling a question over his tongue like a lead bullet. Somewhere between the fifth or sixth round of stretching his legs he'd come to understand why he was in this position. It had never been expressly stated and he knew better than to ask when his voice was weak like a newborn fawn on shaky legs. So, he'd measured his pace.

"How much?" He asked as his voice crackled like kindling on a fire.

"I'm sorry?" Carl replied as he leaned forward in the chair slightly.

"How much does he owe you?"

The smile that spread over Carl's face was almost a tangible entity in and of itself. Whether it was pride at the realization or amusement, Brandon couldn't tell.

"Fifty five thousand."

Brandon laughed as much as his ribs would allow him to and shook his head. This wasn't the reaction that Carl had expected and he readjusted in the chair.

"Why are you laughing?" He asked.

"He tell you what he does for a living?" Brandon's good eye landed on the other man for confirmation. "I didn't think he did."

"He told me what you do."

"Then you should know you're racking up felonies," Brandon paused and hocked a wad of spit toward Grant's shoes. At least, where he assumed the other lumbering man was standing. "You breathe on a cop wrong in New York and you're looking at a charge. You didn't think this through, did you?"

"W--"

"Don't waste your breath. You have two options at this point--"

"You're not in the position to tell me what--"

"Let me finish." Brandon's voice was low and calm; his most obvious tell that something had made his blood boil. "I'll pay what's owed and you'll cut me loose. Chalk it up to masked assailants I can't remember. Or the other option is you kill me. Blood's a lot easier to clean up than bodies and frankly I don't think your girlfriend has the stomach for it."

Grant moved forward to strike Brandon but Carl stilled him with a firm grip on his wrist. One that made Brandon reconsider how he'd ended up here.

"Either way," Brandon continued. "Turn my phone off. GPS probably got pinged the minute you turned it on, but you've still got a head start."