soap and ghost were interrogating one of makarov's men in the metal room, a one way window on the left side, a table with a laptop and a hand scanner

ghost: "hand me your hand." he directed, his gloved palm stretched out.

the man: "and if I dont? you gonna chop it off?"

ghost: "eh, not my style, mate. she might though.."

ghost stepped back, revealing your haunting and intimidating frame. soap giggled.