Sam huddles close to Blaine as the first doorknob of the choir room jiggles, then the other. Everyone's holding their breath, and Sam feels the rush of adrenaline light up the tips of his fingers all the way down to his toes.

Blaine's muscles flex as he clenches his hands and peers over the top of the piano before ducking back down. He looks over at the two teachers helplessly. "Do you think he can get in?"

Beside him, Mr. Schue shakes his head. His brows are furrowed, eyes wide and shining in the dim light offered from the windows high above them. "I don't know, Blaine."

Brittany is over with Coach Bieste, and the rest of the club is huddled to Sam's left, all carefully hidden by one of the filing cabinets pushed in front of the drum set. The metronome still ticks on the floor where Blaine had knocked it when he'd tried to move the piano. Tina and Artie are sitting behind Sam, Artie's wheelchair partially blocking them from view.

The handles jiggle again. Sam feels his heart jump, feels it pound with the rushing blood in his ears. He trembles, mimicking Blaine's movement as he clenches and unclenches his fists against his knees. The shots still echo in Sam's mind, three resounding cracks followed by screams, and he feels bile rise in the back of his throat. Why isn't anyone here yet?

The handle jiggles again, and Marley lets out a little scream. They shush her, and Sam feels the hairs on his arm prickle as it jiggles again, followed by a thud, then another, then another, until it finally is forced open.

A man steps in, tall and broad-shouldered. His hair is black and his eyes are brown and beady with intent as he sweeps his gaze over the room. In his hand he holds a gun, heavy and silver-and-black. Sam doesn't know a lot about guns, but it looks powerful. Beside him Blaine stiffens, setting his jaw.

A smirk, chilling and unsettling, and the man stops in the center of the room. When Mr, Schue begins to stand up the gun is immediately pointed at him, and when Mr. Schue doesn't sit down right away Blaine tugs on his sweater and frantically whispers, "Mr. Schue,please. Sit down."

"Well, good afternoon to you all," the man drawls. His voice is chilling and high-pitched. There's a scar arching over his left brow. He points the barrel of his gun at every single person he sees, and Sam stares him down defiantly when it's pointed at him. Blaine shrinks back when it sweeps over him, and for a second the man hesitates, something flitting over his face before disappearing, like a cloud sliding over the sun.

He takes a few steps forward towards the piano. "You," he says, pointing the gun back at Blaine. "Stand up."

Blaine looks around, panicked, before obeying. His legs tremble when he stands, and his throat bobs as he swallows hard. He holds his chin up as the man looks over him, and Sam admires his calm, collected demeanor. He knows that Blaine is terrified—they all are. But he doesn't cry, doesn't let even his lip twitch or his chin wobble.

"What's your name?"

"Blaine."

"Well, why don't you come on up here, Blaine?" the man asks, sickeningly sweet and encouraging. Blaine looks down at Mr. Schue, at the rest of the members in the room, with a torn look, fear and indecision flickering across his face as he stands halfway up, trembling and silent.

"Now," the man says, a command this time, and Blaine stumbles out from behind the piano, standing in the middle of the room and looking so small next to this huge man. He doesn't look up, doesn't meet the eyes of their shooter, and Sam feels his hands clench into fists at his side.

"Good boy." Sam gags as a broad hand curves around Blaine's cheek. Blaine visibly flinches and shudders, closing his eyes. He shifts on his feet, grabbing at the hem of his shirt. The man stares, predatory, and Sam's gut begins to twist, every warning center in his brain lighting up. A hand cups Blaine's chin, and Blaine stiffens but allows his head to be lifted up, stares straight into the eyes of the man and holds his ground.

The man only smiles back. "I want you to get on your hands and knees for me, Blaine. Hurry up now: this gun is still loaded."

Blaine swallows hard, letting out a whimper, and drops to his knees, hesitating slightly before placing his palms on the cold linoleum. He's facing everyone, and when Sam meets his eyes he sees fear, humiliation. Blaine's brow is furrowed deep, and his breath is hitching. He flinches when the man steps up behind him.

A broad palm is placed over Blaine's lower back, fingers curling around the hem of Blaine's uniform shirt. An involuntary low growl rises up in the back of Sam's shirt as those fingers go lower, rest over the thick band of Blaine's track pants.

The room is still and hushed, holding their breath. Blaine's arms tremble, muscles twitching. He holds Sam's gaze, then drops his head and stares at the floor.

Hold it together, man,Sam thinks desperately, feeling like a lifeline has been severed when Blaine looks away from him. Heneedsto keep Blaine present.

"On second thought..." That cold voice fills the room again, and the man taps his bottom lip thoughtfully. He leers down at Blaine, and says, so chillingly demanding, "Get on your knees."

Blaine swallows before pushing himself off the floor. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't try to disarm the man even though Sam knows Blaine has a killer right hook, and that might be the most disturbing thing of all. He sways slightly on his knees and stares at the far wall; he only moves when the man tells him to, shifting slightly over to the side and lifting his head up. The man steps up to him, runs a hand down his cheek again and smiles. His gun hangs limply at his side, and he asks Blaine as he goes for his fly, "I bet you're a fag, aren't you? Have to be, with that fruity uniform on. Have you ever sucked a cock before, Blaine?"

Blaine whimpers alarmingly, but he doesn't shake his head. The man laughs, says, "That's what I thought."

He undoes his jeans one-handed and pulls his half-hard cock from his underwear, holds it in his hand, and Sam fights back the sudden, quick rise of bile. He can see Blaine's eyes widen, can see the pleading way they look back up at the man. "Please..." he whispers. He shakes. "Please, don't, I—"

The man grabs the back of Blaine's head, forces him forward, and Blaine barely manages to drop his jaw in time before the man pushes his cock in. He chokes, gags wetly, and his eyes shut tight as his cheeks hollow. The man groans, low and pleased, and tugs at Blaine's hair, pushes him down further, then pulls him back until Blaine is bobbing his head as tears slip silently down his face. When he pulls back Blaine is choking, gasping, his chin slick with saliva, his eyes and face burning red and glistening with tears.

"God, fucking perfect," the man sneers. "I'm telling you, you little queers really do give the best blowjobs." He rubs the slick head of his cock over Blaine's lips, pushes at Blaine's back until he falls forward, palms hitting the cold linoleum with an echoing slap.

The man tucks himself back in, a formality for reasons Sam doesn't want to understand, and moves behind Blaine again. Fingers curl around the band of Blaine's track pants, begin to tug them down, and to Sam's left Marley gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Mr. Schue closes his eyes helplessly, looks away. Samcan'tlook away, feels the bile rise up in the back of his throat but hecan't.

Blaine whimpers, begins to squirm. He doesn't dare look back, but his voice is hoarse but pinched, flimsy and tear-filled as he begs, "No, please, don't...don't do this to me."

His pants are tugged lower, and Blaine's eyes are horrified, wide and bottomless as they well with tears that shimmer and wobble before sliding down his cheeks. "Please, stop," he begs. "Oh, god, please, you don't have to do thi—"

His words end abruptly when there's the shining, cold silver of the gun pressing hard against his temple. Blaine gasps, going completely still, and this time when the shooter speaks there is no false pretense, no cover of sweet insincerity. There is only cold, hard-edged malice. "If you or anyone else wants to leave this room alive then you're going to have to shut thefuckup."

The metronome still ticks in the background. Sam's heart pounds loud and hard. Mr. Schue has dropped to rest his back against the cabinets. He still isn't looking. No one else is. No one else can do anything. Blaine's shoulders heave with silent sobs, tears sliding to his chin to drip off onto the floor, but when he meets Sam's eyes there is no anger. What's there scares Sam even more than rage.

It's emptiness.

It's acceptance.

Blaine's pants are tugged the rest of the way down, pooling at his knees; he lets out a sob that echoes and echoes and never seems to leave. The man gets to his knees and strokes over the bared skin of Blaine's ass. He lets out a pleased hum as Blaine shivers, bites his lip and closes his eyes tighter. "Very nice," he murmurs. The barrel of the gun digs harder into Blaine's temple as he gives Blaine's ass a light slap.

He looks up at the room, challenging. His free hand goes to his zipper, pulls it down again, eachsnickof the metal teeth like a drumbeat, a final march. Blaine winces, stiffening at the noise. Sam watches him take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You're all going to watch as I fuck him," the man says. Mr. Schue inhales sharply, and he isn't the only one. But with the gun to Blaine's head, the empty, pleading look in his eyes, no one speaks up. They can't.

We're all so helpless, so powerless. Is this what it's really like to feel this way?

"No one will say anything; otherwise I'll blow his fucking brains out."

Blaine sobs.

Sam feels sick.

God, why isn't anyone helping us? Where are the police? Has it really only been ten minutes since the lockdown?

He inches forward, resting his shoulder against one of the piano's legs. Blaine looks up, sniffing, and Sam discreetly nods his head, says without wordsI'm here. Just watch me. You'll be okay.

He doesn't pay attention as the man spits on his hand and slicks his dick. He holds Blaine's gaze and does his best to communicate what he can't. Blaine looks so small and helpless like this, so unlike the boy Sam knows, that it makes him want to scream, to run forward and knock the gun out of the guy's hand.

But he can't. He knows he can't. Sam just doesn't want to see Blaine get hurt.

When the man pushes in, Blaine tenses, screams, haunting and high-pitched and agonized as his back goes stiff and his shoulders hunch. It dissolves into a whimpering, throaty sob, one hand curled into a fist on the floor. The man presses the gun harder to his temple and Blaine quiets, whimpering instead as the man pushes all the way into him. The tears slip down, faster and faster, and Blaine's eyes are wide, glassy, and full of fear, of pain.

"God, that's it," the man groans, gripping hard to Blaine's hip with his free hand. Blaine bites his lip, another tear streaking down his red face, but he doesn't look away from Sam. His hands clench, nails scratching at the linoleum, but he keeps his mouth tightly shut even as strangled sound after strangled sound leaves his throat.

The slap of skin echoes in the choir room, and Sam's anger grows, overpowers his nausea as each second passes. He tries not to notice the gun still pressed to Blaine's temple, tries not to notice the way Blaine begins to pant, breathing harsh through his nose first before letting his jaw fall slack, his eyes half-lidded as his forehead scrunches up.

Blaine's body moves, sways, with the force of the man's thrusts. Someone in the room lets out a tiny sob, but the man doesn't seem to hear it as he yanks Blaine closer to him, breathes out, low and rumbling like distant thunder, "You like that, don't you? Filthy slut." He lets out a derisive snort, lets go of Blaine's hip and reaches under him. Sam doesn't look away as Blaine finally lets out a short, quiet moan, two more tears slipping down his face to drip to the floor.

The man laughs in earnest, shifting and pushing in harder, harder, as his hand moves and Blaine begins to lose his impassivity as his eyes finally close and his head finally drops, his breath harsh and panting under his moans. A squeeze to Blaine's dick that has Blaine letting out a keening whimper and the man says, "Yeah, you're just a fucking slut who likes a nice cock up his ass. Go on, slut; fuck yourself on my cock for me. Let everyone watching see that that's all you're good for."

He barks to the room, Blaine swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut as he pushes back and swivels his hips, "What do you think of your precious little twink fag now?" He removes the gun from Blaine's temple and sets it on the ground, pushing it away out of anyone's reach, and grabs Blaine's hips with both hands, fucking in. Blaine cries out, unable to keep it bottled up, and falls to his elbows, letting out a moaned sob each time the man's hips slap against his ass.

The metronome ticks.

Sam's heart beats.

Everything is silent except for the man, and each noise, each slap of skin and each grunt, is like the report of those first few gunshots.

Sam's heart breaks.

C'mon, Blaine, just look at me, man. Look at me and see that it's all going to be okay. Blaine's sobs, loud and ceaseless; the man's grunts, low and primitive. Marley buries her face in Jake's chest; Kitty looks at the wall, her jaw set. Her face shines with tears, but there's a fire in her eyes that Sam hasn't quite seen before. He looks back at Blaine, begs silently to get his attention, to doanythingother than sit here helplessly.

Blaine doesn't look up.

And then Sam can hear it, quiet and barely audible, "No, no, no, no, god,no."

The man stills when he comes, gripping Blaine's hips hard, so hard, his head tipped back as his body jerks. Blaine scrabbles at the floor, nails scratching as he shakes his head, begs, "Don't come in me, please, please,pleasedon't, anything but that, please, no..."

A hand disappearing under him, and then he's tensing and moaning, letting out a hoarse sob. The man's hand moves, quick and rough, and Blaine's hips jerk toward it, back arching even as he repeatsnoover and over under his breath, under his labored breathing and his hitching cries and his traitorous moans. He collapses, the upper half of his torso dipping to the floor, his body sagging weakly.

The man doesn't say anything as he pulls out, tucks himself back in and stands up. He quickly reaches for his discarded gun before anyone else can. He holds it up, looking down at Blaine curled and collapsed on the ground, at the rest of them huddled behind furniture and cabinets.

He smirks, cocking the gun, and says, "It was nice seeing you all."

Says, toeing carelessly at Blaine's calf with his boot, "You should call me sometime, gorgeous."

Sam clenches his fists, stands up, but the man is gone and out the door, his footsteps echoing down the hallway before they trail off into nothing. For a few moments, everyone is too numb to move. Breathing is all anyone can do.

"Oh, god," Sam hears Bieste mumble as she stands up, her eyes wide, her face pale. She brings a hand to her mouth like she's going to be sick. She's staring at the floor.

Marley still clutches to Jake, Ryder awkwardly rubbing her back. Unique stares at nothing, resolutely not looking at the floor, and Kitty is standing now, though still staring at the wall. Her expression is unreadable, but when Marley hugs her, she returns it eagerly.

Mr. Schue grabs the metronome from the floor, silencing it. Sam unzips his hoodie, kneeling down beside Blaine. Blaine doesn't look up, doesn't acknowledge that anyone is there. He's shivering, tiny little tremors that wrack his body; Sam carefully drapes his hoodie over Blaine's lower half, running a hand over the hard gel of his hair.

"You're gonna be okay," he whispers. "He's gone. I'm here. We'll get you help and you'll be okay, Blaine. I promise. I'm never going to let anyone hurt you again."

Blaine slowly lifts his head. His face is still red, the rims of his eyes swollen. His thick lashes are clumped together, and unshed tears threaten to join the streaks already down his cheeks.

There is emptiness in his eyes, and Sam lets out a frustrated noise, fighting back tears, pushing past the lump in his throat. "We're gonna get him," he says fiercely. Blaine just blinks up at him. "We're gonna make him pay for what he did to you."

Blaine just shivers, lets his eyes drop back to the floor. He clenches his hands, like he isn't even aware they're attached to him, and says, timid, "I'm so cold."

Blaine is the strongest, bravest person that Sam knows. Sam's always admired his courage, his ability to get back up after being pushed down. He's envied Blaine's spunk, his positive outlook on life. They've become best friends, and Sam doesn't think he can imagine his life without Blaine anymore. Through petty fights and a breakup soothed with late-night comic book movies and video game marathons, Sam's come to see both the best and worst of Blaine.

But he's never seen Blaine so...broken.

Sam swallows, feels a tear slip down his face. He tries his best to smile, a flimsy thing, and rubs at Blaine's shoulder, rearranging his hoodie. "We'll get you warned up, dude. We'll get you all better."

Blaine doesn't say anything, just stares at nothing.

Sam wonders what he's thinking.

Then, he realizes, he doesn't.

He just wants to stop thinking at all.