“My name is Pyotr Nikolai. Thirty-Three years of age, Serial code 040147. My name is Pyotr Nikolai. Thirty-Three years of age, Serial code 040147. My name is Pyotr Nikolai-” The man repeated these words as a mantra, the only words Pyotr had allowed his captors to hear, as he was imprisoned god knows where. He carved another tally mark into the wall with one of his fingernails. If he hadn't lost track of time, it should have been one year, one day, fifty-two minutes, and 33 seconds since the moment he had been captured.

And of course, he was tortured to no end. Geneva Convention my ass. It was just another piece of paper the bureaucrats signed, as people like to believe their government keeps their word just because they “swore” to it on paper. Sometimes his captors would go with the classic waterboarding everyone hears about. Sometimes they’d take his clothes away and throw him in a cell that was extremely cold, and throw cold water on him to add insult to injury. Or they’d simply punch him in the abdomen, perhaps out of anger.

Pyotr didn’t even know why he was here. It was barely a year and he’d almost forgotten his past life. From conversations he heard outside his cell from time to time, they’d said he was a tough one to crack, probably intent to keep his secrets to the death. They’d break him someday.

Problem was, he didn’t even know any secrets. He’d screamed out several times that he knew nothing. His captors took that as a sign of defiance rather than genuine fear.

What could he say? It was a year of pleading, that fell on empty ears. Pyotr tensed as his cell door opened. It was right on time, as always. Did it matter anymore? He could do nothing. Pyotr wasn’t James Bond, he was some janitor at some small town college.

Maybe they’d let him go after a few years of this, and see he was truly innocent.

---

Today would be the last day of the torture.

His captors decided that they simply hold him at gunpoint. Pyotr Nikolai wasn’t talking, so they’d grant him one more chance. Tell them everything, or die. That surely would get him to talk. Hold him down to the ground, shoot a few rounds near his head to scare him into submission.

If he still denied everything, they’d kept him here long enough. If he wished to take his secrets to the grave, so be it. They’d have someone else that they could torture to find out what exactly he was hiding anyway.