It's cold and dark. He struggled in vain for hours and the only thing he has to show for it are some pretty nasty blisters on his hands and wrists that he's made bleed from the rubbing and a possibly dislocated shoulder. He can't be too sure about his injuries as it's just too cold-the good news is that his injuries don't hurt nearly as bad as they did earlier. If he's not distracted by the pain then he can focus his thoughts on an escape plan.

He makes takes a deep breath of the cold air and tries to get a good look around but it's far too dark for him to make out much more than a few feet in front of him. He tries twisting his hands again in hopes that maybe this time the binds will loosen. No such luck.

A streak of light only lets in a terrifying sight as Conan fixes his gaze on his captor. Just as he has expected and feared. Gin.