Most people would find a hostage situation deeply troubling. Some have long lasting trauma from such a situation.

But by the end of tonight I won’t be the one leaving in a hospital bed.

By the time my Kidnappers have decided they’d let me ‘sweat’ for long enough the ropes forcing my hands back are undone and my legs are loose. The knots are so bad that I’m convinced someone clearly isn’t used to hostages that aren’t solely indisposed. Mentally or otherwise.

The three stereotypical burly goons start talking of my ransom as I scan the room discretely, head lolled to one side, feigning drowsiness. I realise quickly that the room in stifling hot and there are massive grates, a crematorium then. It’ll have to be quick.

The goons fed up with talking to a brick wall stride forward. And with my freed leg I sweep across where one was just standing. I stand with the chair loosely attached to my body and break it across the second man’s heavily scarred face. The third, hanging back so far, shouts something down the hall.

I don’t need to process what he said as the grates start clicking open, and the heat grows quickly. He turn to escape and with the grace of a person leagues more innocent than I, my body spins around his, head-butts his pudgy face, and closes the door behind me.

All I can hear as I flee are the screams of three men, shortly followed by the scent of burning flesh.