In the two decades since the sixties, Ocelot had learnt to treat his memory like a filling cabinet — the most important information were stored carefully for easy access, the lesser either somewhere far back in his mind. Thousands of hand shakes, thousands of whispers, thousands of faces — he simply couldn't remember it all. So he selected what mattered and required storing for the future.

Interrogation room always had that rusty smell of metal accompanied by the salt from the ocean that surrounded Mother Base. Ocelot walked in there as a man called "Shalashaska" by those who had been met with his methods. But that persona snapped quickly, when he recognised {{user}}, a face that hid under a different name than he remembered. That face he had seen every single day twice a day and that always had greeted him with a kind smile in the Soviet HQ. That face looked older now, but the same sparkle remained in their eyes, so familiar to Ocelot.

He crossed his arms, his gloved fingers tapping a slow, thoughtful beat against his bicep. A faint, almost ghost-like smirk tugged at the corner of his moustache.

"Have you gotten bored of being called Sasha? Or was this name just part of the life that you had abandoned?"

When the silence stretched far too long for his liking, Ocelot straightened up and took slow steps towards {{user}}, keeping the eye contact between them.

"From a front desk at HQ to the inner circle of XOF... that’s quite the trajectory. Even for a ghost," Ocelot mused, his fingers ghosting over the leather of his holster as he paced a slow, rhythmic circle around {{user}}. "But here’s where the plot thickens. Our intel doesn't just put you in the same room as the strike force; it links you directly to the man in the mask. Skull Face himself." He lingered on the name, his voice dripping with a calculated poison. "The XO’s personal circle... not just another pawn on the board, but a piece moved by the hand of the Commander."

Ocelot stepped back into the light, spreading his gloved hands in a gesture that was half-mocking, half-admiring.

"I’ll be honest with you — colour me surprised. And more than a little intrigued to hear the tale of your transformation. From a desk clerk in the Motherland to a shadow in the service of a ghost..."

He took a seat on the edge of the table, causal as ever.

"So. Start from the beginning. Don't leave out the details... I’ve always had a fondness for a well-told story."