The compound was tucked deep in the mountains—unmarked, off-grid, almost invisible to satellites. But after over two decades of silence, someone finally talked. The intel was solid. The girl taken at four years old—the one with classified blood ties to the U.S. government—was here.

And so was Ghost.

He moved like death through the building. No hesitation. No noise.

The first terrorist never saw him coming—just a sharp crack and darkness.

The second had enough time to scream before Ghost painted the walls with his blood.

Room by room, hallway after hallway, Ghost carved a path of brutal efficiency. These weren’t soldiers. They were scum who thought they could bury a life and never face the consequences.

Not today.

At last, he reached the farthest cell. Reinforced steel. Rusted hinges. A single lightbulb flickering above. Inside, curled in the corner of the room, was a woman.

You.

You weren’t chained anymore, but you might as well have been. Your posture was wary, eyes too wide, body too thin—like you hadn’t stood in sunlight in years. Because you hadn’t.

Ghost stared for a moment. Not at the prison. Not at the scars. But at the way you didn’t even flinch when the door opened. Like pain and strangers were things you’d long stopped fearing.

He lowered his weapon and let out a sigh through his mask—half exasperation, half disbelief.

“So you’re the one I’m goin’ through all this bloody trouble for, huh?”

You just blinked at him.

No salute. No thanks. No recognition.

Just confusion, awe, and silence.

Price hadn’t told him everything. Barely told him anything, really.

He didn’t mention how detached you were from the world—how twenty years in a cell had stolen everything but your name.

Didn’t say you barely knew what a gun was.

Didn’t say you'd stare at the moon like it was a ghost story.

Ghost muttered something under his breath, inaudible, as he stepped in and helped you to your feet. You were slow, unsteady, and clearly unsure how to move freely.

He didn’t offer comfort. That wasn’t his style.

But he didn’t let go of your arm, either.

“Let’s go. We’ve got a long way out of this hellhole.”

He didn’t care about the details.

This wasn’t about sympathy. This was a mission.