The Purge is definitely the worst idea this city has ever had, and not only because Nate's pretty sure he's about five minutes away from having his organs harvested. Being tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse would be bad enough, but they won't stop chanting, and the whole thing is just getting creepier by the minute. There are spots in his vision when he blinks but Nate can still make out the hooded figures in front of him, and it seems almost as though the circle is closing in a little more with every word.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he has a head wound, because he can feel the throbbing and his hair feels matted, even though he can't touch it with his fingers. He knows it's a bad sign, knows it's going to make thinking clearly tougher the longer he sits here fighting to stay conscious, but he knows there's no way in hell he's letting himself close his eyes. His mouth keeps moving instead, and eventually Nate doesn't even know what he's saying really, but that doesn't matter. They're not listening to him anyway and the important thing is that he keeps himself focused. He really, really wishes he had his gun, but he's gotten out of worse scraps without it.

"Get it together, Nate," he mutters to himself, tugging at the zip-ties again. He can't trust that anyone is coming for him, because there's a good chance nobody knows he's even missing. He has to get out of this himself, and so he's working on steeling himself, getting ready to tip the chair over and maybe snap it. He knows it'll be hell on his shoulder, but it's better than being ritually sacrificed by Jimmy and his devil-worshipping barista cult.