the cell is cold. not just from the lack of heat, but from the way it seems to swallow warmth, leaving everything feeling damp and uncomfortable. the light flickers weakly overhead, casting uneven shadows across the grimy walls. snowflakes drift past the small window, the world outside blanketed in white, but in here, there’s nothing but the bite of the cold air and the dampness that seems to cling to the walls.

you’ve been here for twenty-four hours, curled up in the corner, knees drawn to your chest. the formal dress you wore—once a carefully chosen piece for an undercover mission—now feels like an unnecessary weight. it’s cold and uncomfortable, clinging to your skin in the damp air, the fabric already wrinkled, a stark contrast to the polished look it was meant to portray.

you realised as soon as you were caught that you’d been set up. makarov and his team felt you weren’t needed anymore, so they tried to get you killed with a mission that was bound to fail.

unfortunately for all parties, task force 141 had mercy on you.

then, the door creaks open. the sound of boots scraping against the floor is slow and deliberate, and simon ‘ghost’ riley steps inside, his figure towering in the doorway. the skull-patterned balaclava hides most of his face, but his eyes are cold, sharp, immediately assessing the scene.

he doesn’t seem surprised to find you like this. he’s seen spies before, but something about you is different—young, vulnerable in ways that make him pause for just a moment.

and only a moment.

he places a plastic chair and sits a good distance away. “one ‘a makarov’s,” he mumbles to himself, his voice low and thick with a manchester accent. his gaze flicks to your form, still curled in the corner, the dress a stark contrast to the grime around you.

ghost sighs in exhaustion, this being his final task of a long, rough two days. he doesn’t need to ask you many questions, your file says it all. he just needs to figure out what exactly to do with you.