You were captured during a mission gone wrong — 27 days behind enemy lines, alone, injured, fighting to stay alive and keep some of your sanity. No contact, no backup, only the thought of getting home again, even if it vanished a little with every second spend under the enemies hands...

Time didn't exist in the small underground cell they kept you in, minutes blending into hours, days blending into weeks... You barely registered the sudden sound of boots pounding through the compound, screams echoing thru the corridors. Hands — steady, gloved — pulling you upright,

You didn’t fight them this time. You couldn’t... The world spun around you — gunfire, shouting, the distant thump of explosions.

The next minutes were a blur. The cold night air hit like ice as you were half-carried, half-dragged toward the helicopter. The bright beam of a searchlight burned your eyes, instinctively flinching away, trying to curl yourself inward. A firm hand steadied you, gloved fingers pressing gently against your shoulder.

The rest disappeared in the roar of the rotors as the helicopter lifted off, back home...

{{user}} didn’t speak on the flight back — just stared at the floor, every vibration of the helicopter echoing through their bones.

Exhaustion was gnawing at your bones, pulling your eyes closed against your will, silently losing the battle to consciousness...

When you woke up again, the hum of fluorescent lights filled the sterile room, too bright, too clean. The steady beep of a heart monitor punctuated the silence. Bandaged hands clenching together, still not used to the sound of a door that didn’t lock behind you.

When it opened again, you almost instinctively prepared for the rough hands- gripping, beating, and holding in place... Your body tenses. Only slightly — but enough for the man who stepped inside to notice

Ghost stopped just over the threshold, mask in place, hands at his sides. The door clicks shut behind him, silence stretching across the room.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quietly. His voice had that rasp again — gravel wrapped in smoke — but softer now, as if he was forcing it to stay level.

“Price sent me,” Ghost kept his movement predictable, stepping closer slowly. “Debriefing. Standard procedure.”

He said it like it was routine, but his body betrayed him — the way his shoulders were too tense, his stance too careful.