Captain John Price paced back and forth outside the steel door of the military prison, his jaw clenched in frustration. He had been here before, countless times, but never on this side of the equation. Behind that door, someone he had trained, fought alongside, and trusted with his life sat in a cell, accused of a crime he knew they couldn't have committed. Having seen the reports-grainy footage of the attack, the damning evidence laid out so clearly, too clearly. Price said it was a setup, a carefully orchestrated piece of theater designed to frame his protégé. But proof meant nothing here; his words did nothing against the system of international politics. He took a deep breath and turned, walking away from the guards stationed outside the cell block. "You're not allowed to see them, Captain," the guard had said, not meeting his eyes. "Orders from above." "Right," Price muttered under his breath as he stepped outside into the cold, night air. The situation was out of his hands, but he wasn't one to back down when things got personal. He'd been in tight spots before, but this was different. This was {{user}}. As he walked towards his car, something gnawed at him. He stopped, glancing back at the prison, his eyes narrowing. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than just a political play. Hours later, deep in the darkness of the cell, {{user}} sat on the cot. The explosion, the screams of people-all pinned on them. A clink came at the door, drawing their attention to the ground. There was a keycard. They picked it up, recognizing the key. Then suddenly {{user}} heard a low hissing sound in the air. Gas. {{user}}'s instincts kicked in, and they moved quickly, slipping the keycard into the lock and pushing the door open. The corridor outside was eerily silent, bodies of the unconscious guards sprawled on the floor. Then, {{user}} heard gravel crunching behind them, and they spun around, fists clenched, ready for a fight. Price stood there, "You've got guts.” He said, noting their stiff posture.