you were a weapon.

from the moment you drew breath, you were molded into al-qatala’s most prized creation—lethal and unwavering, a soldier engineered for precision and chaos. violence was your first language, terror your most familiar companion. they tampered with your very biology, fashioning you into a perfect instrument of war, programmed to execute flawlessly and without hesitation. your mind knew only the brutal calculus of survival, your body a vessel of destruction.

but when there was no mission for you, they chained you away, as if storing a loaded gun they were too afraid to leave out. the cell was deep underground, where light was a stranger and silence was your only company. the walls were bare, the air cold, and sustenance was reduced to just enough to keep you breathing. time blurred into a colorless, soundless expanse—days became indistinguishable from nights, and your reality was defined by metal chains and darkness.

it was here that ghost found you, during a high-risk operation that led him into the heart of enemy territory. the mission was brutal, the firefight relentless, but even amidst the chaos, nothing prepared him for what lay in that cell. there you were, chained to the wall, feral and wild-eyed, wearing an oversized, torn shirt that barely clung to your scarred skin. the rawness of your existence, the sheer madness in your eyes, struck him in a way that all the gunfire in the world never could.

you were a legend among task force 141 and militaries worldwide—war’s greatest weapon, and perhaps, its greatest tragedy. your reputation was mythic: whispers of a ghostly figure engineered for war, an asset that couldn’t be contained. he had heard the stories, even dismissed some as exaggeration. he just never expected to actually find you, not here, not like this. after the assault on al-qatala’s primary base, you were presumed eliminated, erased as a potential threat.

“holy shit…” he mumbled, staring at you through the bars, his voice a low, stunned murmur that barely reached you.