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Amelia had never felt hopeful until the faint light from the house had poured into the dreary basement, and with it, Allen. She'd been anticipating and other visit from Charles, and she wasn't really in the mood to see the stuck-up, pathetic, worthless piece of crap come back and boast any more. He was a waste of energy. Breath. And she would - most importantly - never look at him the same way for hurting Allen how he did. Whose side are you on, Amy? The side that'll see you gone for good, she cursed.

She and Alfred had been down there and conscious for about half an hour; before waking up, she couldn't know. Alfred had only come out of his mind after she had, and even then, she still felt like she was yet to reengage with her surroundings. What had been in her drink? What the hell had Alex acquired and how? Actually, scrap that, what the hell was up with Alex? Because not only had he drugged her: he'd attacked Allen, attacked Alfred, separated them and then strapped them to some metal piping with cable ties (how original) to simply piss them off more.

'It's a shame too,' she thought to herself as Allen came quietly down the stairs and spoke to Alfred. 'Alex seemed like such a nice guy until, you know, psychopathy . . .'

"I'm going to get you guys outta here," Allen said, "but I have to go and get a knife or something. A bat is only so useful . . ."

"There's a drawer by the sink," Alfred told him weakly, head now throbbing. "It's to the left. Y-You should find something there, dude."

"OK, I'll only be a minute, and then we have to get out of here," the auburn replied, already heading back towards the stairs and the door. "I won't be long, I promise."

"Less talking, more walking," Amelia said in an attempt to be lighthearted, with a small smile.

Allen nodded and gave her a reassuring smile back, and then hurried back up the stairs, opening and closing the door again as quietly as he could. Drawer by the sink. He hoped that Alex or Charles hadn't gone through any of them and removed things that would be useful. Though, bearing in mind that Arthur had checked two or three drawers earlier on for something sharp and come out with a small, piddly thing, he supposed he wasn't out of luck yet.

Meanwhile, below, Amelia and Alfred were reduced to silence again. Neither of them could think of what to say. They had both been wrong, they had both trusted the wrong people, they had both paid no mind to those who had tried to warn them. How could you apologise for that? Alfred felt worse, though. He needed to speak to Arthur. Say sorry, get on his knees if he had to, and beg for forgiveness . . .

The door opened and both blondes looked to the silhouette. Alfred only saw a blur, but Amelia could see it clearly ("That's why you wear contact lenses . . .") For a moment, they had thought it was Allen, but when they realised it was a slighlty smaller figure in terms of frame, it became clear that Charles had decided to pay another visit. For Alfred, it meant it was time to be mute. For Amelia, it meant it was time to pray that Allen wouldn't be found out.

"You've got about forty minutes," the grey-eyed blonde informed them. "It appears I've lost about asset, so you'll have to excuse me while I go and find him . . . Not that you can go anywhere . . ."

He didn't wait for a response; he knew he wouldn't get one, especially not from these too. Charles liked it more when they spoke back. Showed some attitude, some resilience or some defiance, because it meant he could just crush them even more. Like Allen and Arthur. Talking to them was like a roller coaster ride. It wasn't boring old silence! It was entertainment! . . . But he had other things to sort out first, so he closed the door with a careless slam, and the other Americans listened at soon after, the front door of the house was slammed shut too.