The damp and dimly lit room smelled of mildew, the faint hum of the fluorescent bulbs was driving your aching head crazy. Crimson dripped from the gash on your head, streaking your temple and staining the collar of your black tactical gear. Your hands were behind you, tied together as you sat against the wall.

It all went wrong. After years of playing cat and mouse with Task Force 141’s biggest damn cat, he finally caught you. All because of one misstep. You were too predictable, taking the same route you’ve taken before to escape him; this time he cut you off. Trapping you.

Now here you were, Ghost stood across from you, your head throbbing as you lifted it up to look at him. The line of a faint smirk was visible under his balaclava, he was annoyingly confident.

“Well, isn’t this a sight?” He murmured, amusement lacing his words as he slowly paced in front of you. His eyes grazing over you like you were on show for him.

“Not so chatty now, hm?” He crouched down in front of you to meet your gaze. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of responding, turning your head away from him.

He tilted his head at your defiance, his smirk growing. His gloved fingers reached out and grabbed your chin, harshly snapping your head back to him. He then softly ran his thumb across the apple of your cheek. The gesture mockingly tender and it made your skin crawl.

“Blacks not your color, love…” he whispered, his tone dropped with derision. “You look better in red.”