The man known as Richards pushes open the heavy cell door and looks with some satisfaction at the prisoner. The man is in the same position as Richards left him, tied to a chair, but there's an air of defeat about him now. His head is bowed, blood trickling down his bruised face, dark hair dishevelled and slick with sweat.
"Not feeling so smart now, are we?" Richards says with a grin. The prisoner is silent, not looking up. "I said, are we?" Richards grabs the prisoner's chin and pulls his face up, forcing those blue eyes to meet his own.
"What do you want?" the prisoner rasps.
Having made his point, Richards releases his grip on the other man's face and steps back. "I came to tell you that your time is up. Your sabotage attempts were for nothing. They're loading it onto a boat right now. Launches in ten minutes... but you're not going to live that long." Richards pulls the gun from his waistband.
Richards always finds it interesting how people react in the moments before death. Begging and crying is always amusing, though he hadn't figured this prisoner for the type and isn't surprised when the man only stares at him. A tiny bit of spirit seems to creep back into the man's expression and he says, "Don't suppose I could get a cigarette?"
Richards' hand goes to the packet in his pocket.
"I mean," the prisoner continues, "if this is an execution I should get one last cigarette, right?"
Richards hesitates, but thinks, what's the harm? He shrugs, and holsters his gun so he can get out his cigarettes. "There you go," he says, sticking one in the prisoner's mouth and getting out his lighter. "Don't say I'm not hospitable."
The prisoner leans forward to get at the lighter flame, until a tiny crackle indicates the paper has lit. He takes a deep, grateful drag, then brings up a hand to take the cigarette out of his mouth. "Thanks."
Richards has only one second to notice the unbound hand and realise that something has gone badly wrong, before the prisoner drives the lit cigarette into his cheek.
Richards screams, staggering back, and, in one motion, the prisoner stands up, grabs the chair, and with savage force swings it into Richards' upper body. On the third blow the chair breaks. Richards slumps, unconscious, to the ground.
The prisoner takes a deep breath, then goes over to check Richards' pockets. He takes the gun, a set of keys, and, after a moment's consideration, the cigarette packet and lighter.
"Afraid I'll have to take my leave of your hospitality," he says, heading for the door. "Sounds like I have a boat to catch."