Black-bagged by black suits in a black night

It had been quick and professional.

You had to admit that.

Between the tear gas grenades through the windows and the the military boots kicking down your door, there had been five seconds. Ten at most. And then black glove-clad hands had grabbed you, a black bag pulled over your head and you were carried away from your hide-out.

Where to?

You could only guess.

Time, place and directions were meaningless as you were transported. As you feel the vehicle come to a stop, hear doors being opened and feel hands dragging you out, you guess that you have been taken to an interrogation facility. Your feet dangle in despair until you hear a heavy door being unlocked. You are placed on a chair, your hands cuffed to the ground behind it.

When the bag is pulled from your head, you expect to be blinded. But the opposite is true.

The room is extremely dark, with only the faintest lights marking the contours of a person.

You hear a domineering voice, no traces of any accent:

"Mister John Doe. You have been quite the thorn in our side. But that might change soon."

Slowly, the lights in the room grow brighter, and you can make out the look of the person in front of you.

"Mr. Doe, my name is..."