His skin head bobs.

Up, down, up, down.

The sound is naughty - wet, slick, relentless - echoing off the plastic walls of a city car sales office.

A desk chair creaks with every bob, like it’s got something to say about the whole thing.

Dan - if that’s even his real name - is sat back, one hand pressed flat to the back of the lad’s freshly shaved scalp. The other roams aimlessly across his own chest, his blue silk tie, the waistband of his trousers.

Close. Any second now …

The boy’s jaw aches. There’s a sting behind his eyes. But he doesn’t stop. He never stops, in fact he practically grins as—

— climax. Dan stutters forward in his seat. It’s all clenched teeth and shallow grunts as he finishes, right there, in the lad’s mouth.

He swallows.

No gag reflex. No spitting. No drama.

Dan exhales hard like he’s been holding it in since lunch. He tucks himself back in, barely looking down, already reaching for his wallet. The lad wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue tastes like cheap cologne and Red Bull.

They both stand as the lad wipes his mouth and Dan fingers through twenty pound notes, Queen Liz’s face flipping through fingertips.

Sixty quid.

The cash hovers between them, held between Dan’s finger and thumb.

Just as the lad goes to take it, Dan snatches it back.

“You should get a real job, you know,” he sounds disgusted at himself more than anything.

The sixty is handed out again - this time it’s the lad doing the snatching, no words, no eye contact, no thanks.

He leaves. Door slams shut behind him.

He steps out of the office, zipping up his tracksuit jacket, head down, mouth wiped dry. No one says a word.

The receptionist gives a quick glance, thinks he's here for the delivery driver interview. Spare parts. Paint runs. That kind of graft. One of the blokes on the phones says something about a respray on a Sierra. Someone else’s fingers hammer a fax machine like it owes them rent. On the telly in the top corner, Princess Diana’s face flickers - hospital visit, again, people’s princess with the AIDs patients playing their part.

He moves quick, doesn’t make conversation, through the corridor, through the fire exit, then—

—crack!

A hand like a dinner plate smacks him across the face.

His head snaps sideways. Teeth hit tongue. Iron floods his mouth. He drops hard. Palms scrape tarmac.

He blinks. Vision dancing. And there he is. A fucking beast of a bloke.

Built like a pub wall. Bald, tan, fat and muscled in equal measure - belly out but arms veined, thick like tree stumps. Both arms sleeved in dragon-scale tattoos, green and black ink coiled round like armour. Gold chain, gold rings, gold teeth, and a pair of small polite glasses perched on the nose like he’s here to do your mum’s taxes.

“Where’s our money, you little prick?”

Voice like gravel in a cement mixer.

He yanks the lad up by the scruff of his Slazenger tracksuit. The zip digs into his throat. Reeboks scrape along the concrete, laces flapping, back heel almost folding.

The lad coughs, spits blood, then smirks.

“S’probably with your missus. Check under her pillow, sweetheart.”

The beast blinks.

Then the lad knees him, hard, straight in the bollocks.

The bloke folds with a grunt, gold teeth flashing.

The lad stumbles back, wheels round, and sprints - limping a little, vision still off - to the red BMW waiting like a getaway horse at the curb. He throws himself in. Door slams. Key in. Engine grinds once, coughs, then roars awake.

VROOM!

Tyres screech.

The lad swerves out, barely missing a transit van, the radio comes on, its The Sign by Ace of Base …

Insert The Sign by Ace of Base audio

Behind him, the bloke’s roaring, red in the face, hauling himself into a battered white Ford with rust round the wheel arches.

Chase is on.

Down the grey A-roads of Essex - bin day, posties, pensioners walking to the corner shop. Red BMW leading, white van chasing, and a boot full of trouble in between.

The lad flies past the Esso garage, doing fifty-five in a thirty. The BMW growls. Ashtray rattles. He grips the wheel with red knuckles, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, engine whining under his foot like it’s begging for mercy.

VRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOM—

—He cuts the corner sharp.

And then—

Bang.

A blur of silver. A blare of horn.

Impact.

A car comes out of nowhere. Passenger side. Slams into him full force. Like a brick wall on wheels.

Glass explodes, mental bends, steel crunches.

The BMW spins once, twice, then collapses sideways into the kerb like a drunk. The bonnet folds. The passenger door caves in. Windshield gone. The dashboard pops. Ace of Base bursts with static then dies.

The lad’s body jolts. Flinging sideways. Neck cracks hard against the seatbelt. The world tips, and as everything goes dark he has one thought:

I’m dying and my mouth tastes like cum.

Insert Chapter One visual.

Hospital lights buzzed above him like a wasp stuck in a jar.

The lad sat forward on the edge of the bed, fingers clamped on the mattress, ready to bolt. Hospital gown clung to his back, barely covering his arse - not that he cared. His cheek was bruised, stitched just above the bone. Hurt when he blinked.

Some nurse was chatting away somewhere behind him - woman, sharp voice, reading numbers off a screen, “Vitals stable,” she said, “Minor injuries,” she left without saying goodbye.

Then it changed.

Someone else in the room now.

He felt it - eyes, proper eyes, not the medical kind, watching him like he was something worth buying.

A guy’s voice this time, smoother, Irish …

“You’re lucky, y’know. That kind of impact … You should’ve been splattered.”

The lad didn’t look up. Just stared at the floor. Plastic blue, cold, stinks of piss in here.

“No broken bones. No internal bleeding,” the voice continued, “Good muscle tone. Soft skin.”

That one made him flinch.

He lifted his eyes. The male nurse was crouched now, like a mechanic checking under the bonnet. Slim build, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Name badge read: Lenny.

Didn’t look like a nurse, really. More like someone pretending to be one in a film. Even had the voice for it.

Lenny picked up the lad’s hand, turned it over, gave the nails a look.

“Clean. Well-kept. You look after yourself, don’t you?”

The lad didn’t answer.

Then the pen came out from the nurse’s breast pocket - nothing flashy, just standard - and before the lad could clock what was happening, it slid clean from the base of his left heel up to his toes.

His leg kicked out, a jolt.

“—Oi—”, he hissed.

“Reflexes are sharp,” Lenny said, like he’d been waiting to say it. He smirked. Scribbled something on his clipboard, “Brain’s alright …”

The lad shot him a look, sharp and wary.

Lenny straightened up, cool as you like.

“You got a name, lad?”

The lad paused. Thought about that telly earlier, back in the car sales office Princess Di, shaking hands in some hospital. The irony made him snort.

“Prince.”

Lenny looked up. That half-smile again.

“Course it is.”

He closed the folder.

“If you don’t want this kinda thing happening again, play the tape. Safe trip home, Prince.”

With that, he turned and left - not a sound from the door.

The lad sat there a second, heart still thudding from the slide of the pen. He stood, went to grab his things - tracksuit, Reeboks, white socks bunched inside, his now crumpled pack of ciggies, all neatly piled in a stack at the end of the bed.

Only now there was something else.

A VHS tape at the top of the pile with one word written on its surface.

‘Begin’.

Insert visual of tape in hands.