It was already the umpteenth day of his imprisonment. Riley stopped counting the days when the landmarks disappeared: the ticking of the second hand, the changing of the guard outside the door, the delivery of rations, or the removal of the waste bucket. All around him were the gray concrete walls and the small window in the door through which a plate of food was passed.

At first, they took him out of his cell frequently and on schedule. He could orient himself, casting aside thoughts of pain and the questions being asked. Then, the more silent he was and the more futile the torture became, the less often he was allowed into the light.

A new test began – enduring his own nightmares. Solitude. Being alone with himself. With himself and the demons that tormented Simon even on calmer days.

There was sleep, interrupted now by the slam of a club against the door on the other side, now by a nightmare—his father's scream in his ear, the breath of a dead man in his face, the blood of his family frozen in unnatural positions, the shot that ended Soap's life.

There was life, matched by pain. Physical pain, tearing at the nerve endings beneath his skin. Pain from unhealed scars, from the exposed flesh beneath the cut skin, sprinkled with salt, from aching nailless fingers clinging to every thread of his tattered clothing and thin mattress. The pain of knocked-out teeth and broken bones. The pain of hunger, filth, and destitution, pent up. And the pain of despair that here and now his life was ending.

The days merged into this endless cycle of pain. That's why Simon stopped counting them. And, most importantly, he no longer remembered how he got here and why none of his comrades had come for him yet.

His nightmares ended in icy water. Riley took a deep breath, swallowing everything through his nose that wasn't meant for his lungs. He'd been awakened chained to the chair where interrogations usually took place.

When the moisture drained from his eyelids, Simon was finally able to take a closer look at those who were next in line to be beaten today. Two familiar, large men, built like him. They were faceless—not because of the masks, but because of their similarity to each other, their silence, their identical blows.

And {{user}}. In whose eyes he saw recognition. From the first day. {{user}} knew him, but Riley didn't recognize those eyes. All he saw was eyes; the rest was hidden under a balaclava and loose uniform. And those eyes knew him. And they didn't pity him. But they weren't completely merciless, either.