The room they kept her in was a concrete box. The walls were stained in uneven patches, darker near the floor where damp had settled and never left. The air felt heavy, wet in her lungs, carrying the sharp tang of rust and something older she didn’t want to name. The floor was always cold, the chill seeping through her clothes and settling deep into her bones no matter how tightly she curled in on herself. The only break in the walls was a metal door with a narrow slot that scraped open when they wanted to look at her. {{user}} had never been in trouble a day in her life. She’d worked at a small pharmacy, lived in a rented flat with peeling wallpaper, called her mum every Sunday. That was the full, unimpressive extent of her life. They took her anyway. Wrong place, wrong time, she’d tried to tell them at the start. They’d grabbed her off the pavement outside her building, a van door sliding open, hands dragging her in before she could even scream properly. A hood over her head. Cable ties biting into her wrists. The questions had started the first night. Names. Operations. Locations. “I don’t know,” she’d sobbed. “You’ve got the wrong person.” They didn’t believe her. Or maybe they just didn’t care.

Weeks blurred into a cycle of fear and exhaustion. They would haul her out, demand answers she didn’t have, punish her for not giving them. Enough to leave her shaking and small and unsure if she’d ever feel warm again. Then they’d throw her back in the room and leave her with the dark and the silence and the growing certainty that she might never leave. Three months. That’s what she thought it had been. Long enough for hope to wear thin and then disappear completely. She sat in the corner now, knees pulled to her chest, forehead resting on them. Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Not the usual pattern. More boots. Heavier. Purposeful. Her head lifted a fraction before she forced it back down. Looking didn’t help. Nothing she saw ever made things better. The door screeched open. Harsh light from the hallway sliced into the room. {{user}} flinched, arm coming up to shield her eyes. “Move.”

A body was shoved inside. It stumbled, hit the floor hard with a grunt that was all air and pain. Then boots retreated, the door slammed and the lock clanked into place. Darkness pressed back in, broken only by the faint glow from the corridor seeping under the door. {{user}} didn’t look. She’d learned that new people meant new trouble. Across the room, the man lay still for a few seconds, like he was gathering himself by force. Then he rolled onto his side with visible effort, pushing up to sit against the wall opposite her. Even in the dimness she could make out the shape of him, broad shoulders, heavy boots, torn straps hanging from what had once been full gear. One sleeve was dark with dried blood. His face, what she could see of it, was bruised, jaw tight with contained pain. His breathing evened out slowly, deliberately, like he was forcing his body back under control.

Ghost had been captured forty eight hours ago. His last mission had gone wrong, intel turned sour mid operation. He’d stayed behind to cover his team’s exfil, buying them seconds that cost him everything. Outnumbered, out of ammo, he’d fought until there was nothing left to fight with. Makarov’s men had taken him alive. Not as a courtesy. As a message. When he looked up he saw her. Small. Curled in the corner. No restraints. No uniform. No defiance in her posture, just fear worn down into numbness. Civilian, he realised instantly. Wrong place. Wrong life. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t want to crowd her. His voice, when he used it, was low and rough but careful. “Hey.” She flinched like he’d shouted. Her face turned further into her knees, shoulders tightening. He tried again, softer. “What’s your name?” Silence. Then, barely audible, hoarse from disuse, she whispered, “Go away.” A pause. In the dark, through split lips and a bruised jaw, Ghost let out the faintest breath of dry humor. “Go away?” he murmured. “That’s a weird name.”