You slam your fists into the door and scream for help. You do this for hours until the sticky heat turns to a cool chill. At night, you let yourself sleep for a few hours. You continue the next day, pounding away even though your palms, fists, elbows, feet, everything is getting sore. You scream even though your voice is almost gone. You do this all day. At night, you sleep. You wake up the next morning, still trapped in your dream and in this storage unit, and get back to pounding and shouting despite the pain. You cling to your last shred of hope. You're tired, hungry, thirsty, weak, and you're going to die. Is this his plan? Is he just leaving you here indefinitely?
Then you hear a sound from outside and the door starts to lift. You see his feet first and poise yourself to strike. He exposes his legs, then torso, and has the door almost to his face when you spring. You grapple on to him, but your hold only lasts for a moment before he clubs you with the butt of a pistol. You're laying on the ground, bleeding, aching, and disoriented, when he executes you without a words.