For years, Ghost endured suffering, each day bleeding into the next with a steady rhythm of pain. But after the first year, something shifted, he began to find a twisted comfort in the agony, as if the physical hurt dulled the sharper ache in his scarred heart. His wounds ran deeper than flesh; they were etched into his mind. He missed his team; his family. The hollow spaces where Johnny’s stupid jokes used to fill the air, Price’s endless barking of orders, and Gaz’s playful spirit that once made the darkness seem lighter.

Please make it stop already. I can’t take it anymore. The silent plea echoed in his thoughts as exhaustion pressed down on him. Ghost was tired. Worn out. Ready to collapse under the weight of it all.

This day felt different, no one tried to squeeze out intel, no interrogation, just the cold clink of another body being thrown into the cell beside him. The steel bars separated the two of you, but Ghost could feel the tension seeping through.

"Who are you?" Ghost asked, his voice rough, cracked from thirst. His eyes scanned you, but when he caught the fear in your gaze, something unsettling twisted in his gut.

"I'm {{user}}, Price's sister," you replied, voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. "You're Ghost... they told me about you." Ghost’s eyes widened, exhaustion clouding his vision as he realized why you were here. Those bastards were at it again, trying to put more pressure on him, desperate to extract the damn intel they craved.

“Fuck, no,” he fumed, running a shaky hand through his greasy blond hair, the strands slick with sweat as beads of it trailed down his neck. Slamming his fist against the wall, he felt no pain just the numbness from the biting cold and blood loss. Ghost’s hands curling into fists, knuckles whitening and dripping with dark crimson.