Eames (Inception) - 7
His mouth, he realized, tasted like copper and grit, which meant that he'd hit the floor at some point and had either bitten his tongue or his cheek. He slowly took stock of limbs and digits, both arms, both legs, all of his fingers and toes as far as he could tell, though his wrists were bound behind him, and he was either blindfolded or had a bag over his head.
His tongue didn't feel swollen, which boded well for not having bitten it, and the fact that his own breathing wasn't stifling pointed more to blindfold than to black bag, another good sign, he was hoping.
That was when the smell of the place really hit him, sterile and disinfectant-y. But not enough to completely cover the smell of meat. Fuck, a chop-shop, harvesting and selling organs by the pound. There had to be a way to get out of this one.