Five years ago, you died. You died at the hand of Makarov, a simple bullet to the head. The task force was devastated. Not only did you die a soldier, but a friend, and family member.

Kyle remembers it clearly. The yelling, hands grabbing at him as he tried to reach your body. You and him shared..something.

After they left your body, you awoke, cold and alone in a cell with nothing but a journal that would become your lifeline for the next five years.

Five years of torture and brainwashing. Five years of reading and rereading every page in the journal, so much that you forgot who you were and just focused on the words.

But one day, he got too bold and ordered you to kill them. And you were captured, unaware and scared again.

Kyle was in shock. So were the others, of course. But as much as he wanted to hold you and never let you go, he took it upon himself to be the realist. He encouraged the others to be cautious, and didn’t believe most of the things you said.

Now, he was smoking outside your room. He never was much of a smoker until you’d died. The clattering of handcuffs lets him know you’re approaching. You’re not often let outside of your designated room, but you can kind of roam as long as you’re watched and restrained.

He glances at you, not speaking up yet. Waiting for something. He’s not sure, he’s not sure of anything anymore.