Rafael placed two palms towards the approaching crowd. "Please, please!" He repeated over and over. "It's him you want," He pointed at Quint, "Please!... Jessica, we just worked—" An elderly man lunged across the loft at Rafael. He took a step back, dodging the attack and used the man's forward momentum to push him stumbling forward to the floor.
Rafael jumped from the platform and sprinted across the floor, throwing his fists at any man or woman that approached. He let out exasperated pleads as he flew up the stairs.
A group of five workers sprinted up the metal stairs after him. The first man clipped the back of Rafael's heel, causing him to stumble onto the catwalk. Raffy's face contorted, snapping in every which direction trying to find a way out. As the first man reached the top, Rafael kicked him, from his lying position, turned, and sprinted down the right wall slapping at each door handle along the way only to find them all locked.
His sprint slowed as he reached the dead-end wall. He looked down at the crowd gathered below. The platform was too high to jump. At least thirty feet. Too high. Maybe a table could break the fall. No, that one's too far. Maybe—
The fastest of the five men slammed into him from a full sprint. Rafael’s lungs squeezed shut, releasing his last bit of breath into the air. His head hit the wall, peeling his cheek on the gritty cement as he slid to the floor. The man stood up as the four others arrived.
Rafael looked at the men glaring down like animals. He coughed and gasped, trying to regain composure. He wouldn't let them have the satisfaction.
Rafael rolled to his left, under the railing, and off the balcony. Limbs flailed in desperation the entire thirty-foot drop until he slammed into the floor. His body went limp. There was a brief calm as everyone stood watching the contorted body. His arm twitched.
"Twenty seconds." Quint broke the silence.
Chaos ensued.
A lady jumped onto Rafael's chest. She grabbed two handfuls of thick black hair and began slamming his head time after time into the floor. Twenty workers gathered around as the mob tugged and pulled at the body. Grotesque screams filled the air.
The lights flickered.
The chaos stopped instantly, all turning to face the man who was now back on the platform.
Quint took a step down and slowly made his way across the floor. The mob parted, allowing Quint to exam Rafael's body. With his clothes torn, he was entirely exposed. Quint placed two fingers on the man's broken neck. A small puddle of indistinguishable goop had formed next to the head.
Rafael's chest raised, he gurgled, then coughed a mouthful of blood onto Quint's suit.
The workers began to yell.
A man with a round head shouted, "You can't do this." He stepped at Quint. "If you do this, nothing keeps us from you,"
A few workers seemed to yell in affirmation.
Quint raised his hands. He had no fear in his eyes. "If you put this man in the tank, I will not activate the list."
No sooner than he'd closed his mouth, three men grabbed the round-headed man. He kicked and screamed, trying to fight. They dragged his body up the stairs. And down the left walkway. Two men held him down while the third spun a crank lifting the floor from its place. The metal lid of the fish tank opened in half like two swinging doors.
When the two pieces of the lid were straight in the air, the men tossed the man into the tank. The two sections of the cover closed on top of him. The man on the walkway spun the crank bringing the floor to the ground.
Quint walked across the room to the tank. He watched for a moment with a look of sadness on his face. He turned to address the crowd as the man in tank treaded water behind him. "I apologize for the display. The list will not be activated. Please don't let this distract you from your work."
The mob slowly began to disperse at a sluggish pace. A woman at the back of the room was crying hysterically. A coworker put his arm around her in condolence.
Quint signaled across the room to the bald man who unlocked the cuffs. Michael frantically looked for an exit. The catwalk doors appeared locked, the door behind him might be open, but it just led back the office. A hand pushed him from behind, nearly knocking him to the ground. He slowly trudged to Quint.
"I want to let him out, but I can't," Quint said, gesturing to the man in the tank, "Watch."
He pulled the phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. The metal lid of the tank began to lower slowly towards the man.
"If you look closely, you can see the holes in the lid." Michael watched in horror as the lid inched closer to the man.
The swimmer hit his palm against the glass, trying to get Quint to stop. The cover met the water forcing the man's head underwater. He pushed and fought the lid, but it kept lowering. The water spilled through the holes in the lid filling, allowing it to keep descending. Once the cover dropped half the length of the tank, it stopped moving, trapping the man in the water.
The man pushed off the wall slamming his body into the other side of the tank. Over and over, he slammed his body in an attempt to break the glass. He swam to the lid and tried to push only to propel his own body down towards the base. He looked in every which direction, trying to think of something else. His face changed; his body was still. He hadn't let go of his breath, but he just floated in the middle of the tank.
"I never enjoy this," Quint stated solemnly. "But first impressions matter." He turned from the tank, took a deep breath. Without looking at, Michael said, "Let's go back to my office."
Michael sat silently. His shirt wet with sweat; his jaw was quivering; he feared he was going to die. He knew if he tried to resist, it would inevitably lead to his death, but maybe, just possibly, obedience may be his way out. Why was this happening? He didn't deserve this. He hadn't done anything. What was this company?
"You won't believe me, but that wasn't easy for me to watch, either." Quint started. His voice was sincere, but Michael did not believe him in the slightest, "You work up a bit of a tolerance, but you can't numb yourself entirely." His face swelled with sorrow. "I don't like what I do, but what would I do if I left?" He tapped his finger, "I know it sounds like a lie, but I'm not a bad man. If it weren't me, it'd be someone else," He paused and analyzed the fear on Michael's face, "If you could, please tell me everything that led up to being here. Every detail is important."
Slowly, Michael made his way through the previous few days, stuttering as he remembered details. His voice was shaking from nerves and adrenaline. Quint watched him intently soaking in every bit of information shared. When he got to accepting the vacation offer, he had to track back and explain his situation with the Bissets. When explaining the Bissetts, Michael had to backtrack further to the night his parents passed away. As he described hearing the news that night, he began shivering uncontrollably.
Quint raised his hand, "Normally, excessive detail means a person's lying, but I don't think that's the case here. I believe you." He pulled out his phone.
"No, no, I'll do anything," Michael pleaded.
"What?" Quint asked, "Oh." He looked at the phone, amused, "I don't need to flicker the lights in here. I could just ask these two to kill you. But you're not going to die today. Stop shaking; you're making me uneasy." Quint held the screen up to Michael, "The man you described, wearing the mask, Gary, is this him?"
Michael looked at the blurred photo taken from a security camera at the Malibu resort sometime during the night. The person in the photo was standing with two hands pressed against a side window, presumably trying to pry it open. Even in the dark, it was easy to see the person had long hair. The face was too blurred and dim to make out any distinct features. What appeared to be a surgical mask covered his face.
"I believe so...I mean, I can't tell, but it makes sense, right?"
"And you've never seen this man before in your life?"
"No."
"I believe you," Quint responded, adjusting back into his seat. "Mr. Sinclair, I would like to apologize now. I'm not sure I'll see you again."
The words made Michael adjust in his chair. He never wanted to see this man again, but he knew that Quint telling him this was probably not a beneficial development for himself.
"You don't deserve anything that's about to happen to you. I'm ashamed of what you'll go through. It wasn't your choice, and I understand that's not fair."
Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Quint cut him off, "But I'm a man of my word. I'm honest. Right now, you're a central piece of me keeping my word."
It took a moment for Michael to process Quint's statement, "If you're honest, can you tell me what's going on?"
"If I answered, it'd be a lie." Quint opened the phone, "You've seen what I can do. I trust that you'll behave. I've watched you for three months without you noticing. Since the secrets out, it will be even easier to monitor your activity now. You will work for me. It will not be enjoyable. Do you understand?"
Michael nodded.
"I am certain Gary will contact you once you're released. You can tell him all about the resort. When he asks, you can tell him all about me and the spectacle in the work hall. However," Quint leaned in, "You may not tell him about the photo. Or that we know of his existence. From Gary's point of view, he is to believe you are working directly for me. You are my employee. When he asks what you are to do, you tell him that you're awaiting orders."
"What will I be doing?" Michael asked, unsure he wanted to know.
"Nothing right now. I need time to think and plan. You'll hear soon enough. In the meantime, it would be wise of you to keep this as a secret from anyone you know—police, family, fiancés, guardians. Just assume every piece of your life will be observed and overheard. We wouldn't want anything to have to happen to your loved ones." Quint's voice was soft as if his threat had been the most causal thing ever said.
Michael felt a dense weight in his stomach. He looked down at the floor as his knees bounced uncontrollably. "I understand," he croaked, "Am I allowed to go now?"
"Almost." Quint signaled to the bald man, "Could you fetch Mr. Sinclair a glass."
The man walked to the right wall and opened a cupboard. He reached inside and pulled a wine glass from a shelf. He then turned and opened a floor-level cabinet and removed a half-empty wine bottle from a rack. Michael watched as the red liquid filled the glass half full. He sat the cup in front of Michael and walked back to the wall. He pulled out two large leather belts and a funnel. Michael did not resist as the man bound his arms to the chair.
"Thank you, Mr. Willard," Quint said. Mr. Willard gave a short bow and left through the door to the warehouse. Quint walked around the desk. "Do I need to use the funnel?" He asked.
Michael shook his head no.
He lifted the glass to Michael's lips and watched him drink the bitter drink. "I'm going to leave now. You can throw up if you'd like, but it'll be much less painful if you don't." Quint walked across the room and opened the door that led to the hallway, "We'll be in touch shortly. Remember my advice." The door closed.
Michael sat still trying to slow his breath. Tears began to swell in his eyes. They began to stream down his cheeks and stuck with him unable to wipe them away. It felt like a horrible weight was pressing down on his entire body. He was entirely helpless. His mind ran wild with awful ideas of what working for this man might mean. Would he even be working for this man? Or was he in the process of dying right now? Did he just willingly drink his death?
Wild thoughts continued to pour through Michael's mind as his sobs grew louder. Without knowing it, the room began to fade into the background. He felt an overwhelming calm as his mind began to slip. For the second time in recent memory, everything turned black.