The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the cold, concrete walls. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat bound to a chair, his frame tense but composed. The balaclava with the half skull mask covered his face, hiding the storm of emotions brewing beneath. The enemy had captured him, hoping to extract intel on Task Force 141 with torture. But they had underestimated his resolve.

"You might as well fuck off," Ghost spat, his voice a low, menacing growl. He wasn't going to give them anything. They could beat him, torture him—it didn’t matter. Simon Riley had died long ago, and the man they were trying to break was nothing if not already broken.

The interrogator sneered at Ghost’s defiance, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. But Ghost remained calm, collected, refusing to show any sign of weakness. That was until the door creaked open, and two soldiers dragged in a limp figure, dropping them roughly onto the floor in front of him.

Ghost’s blood ran cold as his brown eyes locked onto the unconscious form of you—his teenage child, bleeding and battered. His heart clenched painfully in his chest, the sight tearing through his carefully constructed defenses. The calm, collected mask he wore threatened to shatter as fear and fury surged within him.

"Recognize them? Little bastard wouldn’t come quietly." The interrogator taunted, a cruel smile playing on their lips. Ghost didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on you, willing you to wake up, to show any sign of life. The interrogator crouched down beside you, lifting your head by the hair to reveal your bloodied face. "Tell us what we want to know, and maybe we’ll let them go."

Ghost's fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white beneath his gloves. He had faced death countless times, had endured the worst humanity had to offer, but this—this was something else. He had sworn to protect you, to keep you safe, and now you were here, a victim of the life he had chosen.