The man with the green eyes gave the journalist an apple too natural-looking to have grown on a tree.
"It carries a retrovirus that will change your skin chemistry," he said. He pointed at the computer on the table. Table and chair were the only furniture in the locked room the journalist had spent two years attempting to be kidnapped and brought into. "In about half an hour your fingertips should be able to unlock the biometric sensor."
"A bit biblical, don't you think?"
"The retrovirus will also kill you. From your biological parameters we estimate about two hours between first bite and death."
"More than a bit biblical, then. Tracks for your boss." As there was no response to this the journalist pointed to the gun that was the only object on the table besides the computer. "The gun?"
"A single bullet. You have no strong ethical qualms against suicide." It wasn't a question.
"Are the files that depressing?"
"I wouldn't know. The retrovirus kills in an extremely painful way. You might want to stop reading earlier than absolutely necessary."
The journalist raised his eyebrows. "I feel like I'm in a torture porn movie cliche. Is your boss watching?"
"I couldn't say." It wasn't the same as not knowing.
"It's not like I'm leaving this place alive either way," said the journalist and bit into the apple. It was the best-tasting apple he had ever eaten.
The man with the green eyes nodded and left the room without looking back. The locks were too good to be audible.
The journalist sat in front of the computer, tapping his finger into the biometric sensor every few minutes in unfeigned impatience. The contents of the laptop were a secret worth dying for. He had known about room, computer, apple, and gun years ago.
He eyed the gun. Was he imagining the first stirrings of pain? No matter; it would be unmistakable soon enough. With his foreknowledge and contacts he could have blocked his pain receptors before being taken into the room, but that wouldn't have fooled the man watching through the hidden cameras. He would have to endure the pain, gun in hand, until the man entered the room to watch him shoot himself to stop the agony.
The journalist didn't have to read the files in the laptop to know the owner of the room was that kind of man. He had done that and much worse to many more people. The trick was to get him to indulge that minor sadistic curiosity once again and then use the one bullet.
As the agony began he fortified himself with the lovingly described atrocities in the files with the bitter and hopeful suspicion that the man behind them was on his own way courting death.