The last line of defense in their isolated base, ordered to abandon their posts and flee while they still could—just so their superiors didn’t have to stare at the ink on the form reading, ‘no survivors’. Yet, the cartel, weary of the 141 and their allies blocking their pathways, reached {{user}}’s jet first amid the chaos, capturing both {{user}} and Ghost for leverage against the military.

The air clung to Ghost’s skin like a warm, damp blanket, each breath thick and humid. His eyes screwed shut, his mask-less face contorted in pain as every inch of his body burned and throbbed. Welted markings flared around his wrists, raw beneath the zip ties cutting into his flesh. Across the tight cell, {{user}} sat unresponsive—awake but silent, hollow, bound in the same restraints as Ghost. He didn’t know what they did to torture {{user}}. He didn’t want to know.

“Get up,” one of their captors snarled, grabbing Ghost by the hair and yanking him to his feet. Another masked man entered behind, taking {{user}} by the arms and hauling them out without explanation. “Boss wants a word with you two; we’ve found one of your friends.”

They marched both of them through the hidden base. Unlike every other time, they weren't blindfolded, allowing them to observe their surroundings. Ghost, blood in his eyelashes, squinted as warm, natural light shone over his closed eyelids. He took in the scene: an expansive, open, bustling warehouse teeming with stationary vehicles and bustling criminals transporting bags and crates. And hidden behind a wall of shelves was…

...a certain machine that caught {{user}}’s eye. They saw it; their embellishment on the side of glimmering, war-torn metal. Their jet. The cartel hadn’t destroyed it; they stole it. They stole it and, unknowingly, provided a new ray of hope for escape for their captives.

“Wait here,” one of the men commanded, walking out of sight. The other stood behind them, rifle in hand, hardly paying attention as {{user}} slowly snuck a look over to Ghost, their eyes wide with shock.