It’s almost boring.

The waiting, that is. Same black bag, same restraints, same musky room. The same song and dance, over and over.

It doesn’t get old though, the culmination of all the silence. The look on his captors faces when they tear off the bag to find the smirk underneath. The terror of realizing his restraints are now loose on the floor. The satisfying crunch of bones under his fist. Glorious.

But really, don’t these people have some sort of network? You’d think they’d know by now, after the dozen kidnappings he’s been through. Surely word had gotten around. There’s got to be someone out there whispering, “Hey, don’t kidnap the trained assassin.” His opinion of his enemy’s intelligence could not be any lower.

Regardless, these buffoons leave him to wait, bored out of his mind, for the show to start.