Reckless Harmony

Lost and Found

Okay, something's seriously off.

Mickey should've been back hours ago. But he's not, and he's not answering his fucking phone either. Ian's mind's going a million miles an hour, spinning all these worst-case scenarios. What if something happened to Mickey? What if he's hurt?

Why else wouldn't he be answering his goddamned phone?!

He tries to calm himself down, telling himself he's overreacting, but it's like trying to stop a runaway train with a paperclip.

"Where the fuck are you?" Ian mutters to himself, frustration lacing his voice. He's already dialed Mickey's number a million times, but it's just ringing out into the void.

Ian's pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, his nerves stretched tight as a wire. He knows he's being paranoid, but he can't help it regarding Mickey; his purpose.

He grabs his phone again, his thumb hovering over Mickey's contact. He knows he should call one more time, but the thought of that deafening silence on the other end makes his stomach churn.

"Come on, Mickey, please be okay," Ian mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, his heart pounding.

***

Mickey's slowly coming to, the mother of all headaches pounding in his skull. He blinks, trying to focus in the dim light. The air's musty, thick with dust and despair.

With a groan, Mickey sits up, every muscle in his body protesting. His head's spinning, and he's pretty sure he got whacked real good. He feels something wet and sticky trickling down his face – yep, blood.

Great.

Memories flood back – the ambush, the sound of metal meeting bone. Mickey winces, taking in his grim surroundings of what seems to be a warehouse. He's trapped, tied up with his hands behind his back, and feeling about as vulnerable as a kitten in a pit of snakes.

Panic starts to bubble up, but Mickey clamps down on it. He's not one to roll over and play dead. He grits his teeth, pushing through the pain as he tries to get up. Only, his legs aren't having it, and he crashes back down with a thud, cursing under his breath.

Then comes Gabriel, strutting over like he owns the place, that slimy smirk plastered on his face.

"How's it hangin', Milky?" he drawls like they're old pals catching up over a beer.

Mickey shoots him a glare that could curdle milk. "Could be better," he mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What the hell do you want?"

Gabriel's expression darkens, the playful facade slipping away to reveal something much colder. "We're gonna have ourselves a little chat, Mickey. Just you and me." Gabriel leans in closer, his breath hot against Mickey's ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "You see, Milkovich, your little stunt caused a stir in my operation. And that's not something I can just let slide," Gabriel says, his voice dripping with venom.

Mickey's jaw tightens as a surge of defiance rushes through him. Without a second thought, he spits in Gabriel's face, his eyes blazing with defiance. "If you gotta kill me, then do it. But Ian-"

"Like we said before, this ain't about him," Gabriel growls, his tone menacing. "And we ain't planning to end you, not yet at least. We've got something special in store for you."

Mickey's heart pounds in his chest as Gabriel's words sink in. Fear courses through him, but he's not about to let these bastards see him tremble.

"You're all talk, you piece of shit," Mickey spits.

Gabriel's grin widens, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "We'll see about that," he says ominously before turning on his heel and disappearing into the shadows.

Alone in the darkness, Mickey struggles against his restraints, his thoughts consumed by Ian. He knows he needs to find a way out, but the odds seem overwhelming.

The sound of heavy footsteps interrupts his thoughts, and Mickey tenses, bracing himself for what's to come. Minutes drag on, each one feeling like an eternity, until finally, the door creaks open, and shadowy figures emerge.

Without a word, they converge on him, their grip like iron as they drag him towards a nearby table. Mickey fights back, but he's outnumbered and outmatched, soon finding himself strapped down and helpless.

Mickey watches in horror as they approach, their faces twisted with sadistic glee. He tries to fight back, but it's no use – he's completely at their mercy.

But just as something sharp is about to clamp down on his finger, a gunshot shatters the tense air, accompanied by the gut-wrenching howl of one of the thugs collapsing to the ground.

Mickey's senses heighten as chaos erupts, though he remains bound and can't see much. Familiar voices cut through the turmoil – Max and Eddie. How the hell did they get their hands on a gun?

Eddie rushes over to Mickey, swiftly undoing the restraints that bind him to the table. Mickey meets his eyes, a mix of relief and determination reflected in his gaze. Meanwhile, Max stands stressed, his hands shaky as he points the gun at Gabriel, who kneels before him with his hands raised in surrender.

Max's voice slices through the tension like a hot knife through butter, filled with raw anger. "Who the hell are these assholes, Mick?"

Mickey's breath hitches, heavy and uneven, his chest rising and falling with each ragged exhale. "We gotta bounce, like, now," he says urgently, his eyes scanning the dimly lit warehouse.

Gabriel opens his mouth to respond, but Mickey cuts him off with a glare. "Save your breath," he spits, his voice dripping with venom. "If you even think about crossing paths with us again, I'll make sure my old man hears all about this. You'll be lucky if you're not sleeping with the fishes by sunrise."

With one last scathing look, Mickey turns on his heel and strides away, leaving Gabriel to stew in his own fear and regret. But just as they exit the warehouse, Mickey hears one last line from the man on his knees.

"Still a Daddy's boy, huh?"

Ignoring the taunt, Mickey clenches his fists, his resolve stronger than ever. He's not about to let some lowlife like Gabriel get under his skin. With a determined stride, the boys head towards the waiting van, ready to put this nightmare behind them once and for all.