It's been a full month now since you were wrongly accused of smuggling intel, and incarcerated despite everyone's efforts to clear your name and get you out.

Ghost sat there at one of the little cells at which loved ones could talk to their imprisoned friends and family, the communication phone in his hand and to his ear, in the visiting room where maybe a dozen other visitors were beside and all around him, little privacy and an overwhelming silence bouncing off the grey walls.

He studied you through the panel, an inch of glass seperating civilians and prisoners. He looked nice now. Normal. No mask, civvie clothes, almost like he's just a regular guy. Though he could be easily mistaken for one of the convicts thanks to the marks on his face.

"At least ya look good in orange." he chuckled dryly.