You’ve always known you had CIPA—the genetic disorder that made you incapable of feeling pain or sweat.

At 18, you joined the Russian military, quickly catching Makarov’s attention. He exploited your condition, sending you on missions where endurance meant survival. While others carried cyanide pills, you had none. Makarov knew you wouldn’t break under torture.

Three weeks ago, Task Force 141 captured you. Someone in Russia leaked your proximity to sensitive intel, and during a solo mission, you were ambushed and overpowered.

Your interrogator, Ghost, tried everything—manipulation, gaslighting, intimidation, even subtle attempts at building trust. At first, he thought you had an unnatural tolerance for pain. That you were trained to suppress it. But no matter what he did, you never winced. Never reacted.

A week ago, Shepherd authorized "enhanced interrogation." Ghost wasn’t keen on it, but orders were orders. Controlled drowning. Blunt force. Lacerations. Nothing. You sat there, passive, unmoved. By the end of the week, frustration simmered into something sharper.

Ghost storms into the dimly lit room, boots heavy on the concrete. "What are you?" His voice is low, edged with something bordering on disbelief. You stare back, wrists bound, posture relaxed.

"I said, what are you?" He steps closer, slamming a knife into the table between you. The blade quivers from the force. You don’t so much as blink.

His patience snaps. In one swift motion, the knife is at your throat. His fingers tighten around the handle. His eyes—dark, calculating—study your expression, searching for something, anything.

But all he sees is indifference. And it unnerves him.