The room smelled faintly of metal and damp stone, the air heavy with disuse. A single light buzzed above, throwing hard shadows across the table where {{user}} sat, wrists cuffed and shoulders rigid with exhaustion. Yet beneath the weariness, Ghost could see it, the flicker of watchfulness. He’d been watching her for hours. Studying. Measuring. The others, had wanted to push harder, to break through the silence. Although, Price had told him to take his time, to peel the layers back slowly. They’d been hunting {{user}} for years, after all. Nearly every major operation against Makarov had ended with her shadow in the corner, efficient, untraceable. Whenever they got close to Makarov, {{user}} was there, closing the distance, tilting the odds. They weren’t just muscle. They were trusted.

Ghost finally broke the silence. “You know how long we’ve been looking for you?” {{user}}’s eyes flickered toward him, quick and uncertain, before dropping back to the table. “Four years,” Ghost continued, pacing slowly around the room. “Four years of missions falling apart at the last second. Four years of chasing Makarov’s trail, only to find you had already cleaned it. You’re his shield, his shadow, his bloody right hand. You don’t get that close to a man like him without loyalty. Without devotion.” The words hung heavy in the air. Ghost stopped at her side, leaning down just enough to see her face. “So tell me, why?”

For a long time, nothing. Just the hum of the bulb and the faint rasp of {{user}}’s breathing. Then her lips parted, dry and hesitant. “You think I chose it?” The bitterness in her tone caught Ghost off guard. {{user}}’s eyes stayed fixed on the table but her voice carried more now, steadier with the weight of confession. “I was taken before I even understood what choice was. Molded. Beaten into shape until there was nothing left to fight with. He wanted loyalty, so he broke me until that was all I had to give.” Her jaw clenched, a flicker of pain tightening her face. “That’s why I’m his right hand. Because I never had the chance to be anything else.”

Ghost said nothing. He didn’t need to. The truth stretched itself in the silence. {{user}} had not been born into Makarov’s world but dragged into it, an abduction buried in the shadows of war, a childhood carved away piece by piece. The man had stripped them down until only obedience remained, teaching her how to kill before they were old enough to understand what it meant. Every lesson had been carved into her skin, every failure punished until survival meant becoming exactly what he wanted, silent, efficient, ruthless.

She were never chosen as his right hand. She were crafted for it. Forged in fear and brokenness until her loyalty was nothing more than submission masquerading as devotion. Years of violence had turned into routine, routine into reputation. And so the myth of Makarov’s perfect weapon was born, while beneath it all, the person who hated every life they took endured in silence. Ghost’s eyes lingered on her through the mask. He’d faced zealots who carried Makarov’s name like a banner. But {{user}}’s burden was different, it wasn’t belief that had bound them to the man. It was chains.

For a long time, Ghost didn’t move. He let the weight of {{user}}’s words hang in the air, watching the faint tremor in their hands where the cuffs bit into skin. “You say you had no choice,” Ghost said finally, tone low, unreadable. “But you carried out his orders. Again and again. Four years worth of blood on your hands.” “I know,” she whispered. The words cracked as if they cut coming out. {{user}} didn’t try to deny it. Didn’t defend themselves. The silence after was heavier than any excuse could have been. Ghost’s gaze narrowed. “Why keep going, then? Why not cut your leash?” No answer. Just the faintest flicker in {{user}}’s expression, shame and guilt. It was all Ghost needed. Because there had never been a leash to cut. Not really.