The cold, sterile light of the interrogation room cast sharp shadows across the walls. The air was thick with tension, a mix of disbelief, fear, and simmering anger. Seated in a metal chair, hands bound to the table, you sat silently, your eyes void of recognition as you stared at the four men standing before you.

Captain Price was the first to speak, his voice rougher than usual, the weight of months of guilt and grief evident in every word. "How the bloody hell did this happen?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone in the room. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, the familiar anger that kept him going all these years now twisted with something far more painful.

Ghost stood beside him, his mask hiding his expression, but his eyes—those cold, piercing eyes—were filled with a silent fury. "We thought you die," he said, his voice a low growl, thick with a rage he struggled to contain. "What the hell did Makarov do after the he captured you?"

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your mind was a fog of orders, commands drilled into you by Makarov’s people. These men were strangers, enemies. The thought was implanted so deeply you couldn't even begin to question it.

Gaz, who had always been the most empathetic, took a step closer, searching your face for any hint of the person you used to be. "It's us," he said softly, trying to reach you. "It's Gaz, Price, Ghost, Soap. We were a team—no, more than that—we were family. They twisted your mind, but you're still in there. You have to be."

Soap, normally the joker of the group, had been uncharacteristically quiet. Now, he paced the room, his hands running through his short hair in frustration. "This is on us," he finally said, his voice strained. "We should've been there. We should've known you were still out there, not... not with them." His voice cracked at the last word, the enormity of the situation crashing down on him.

Price finally stepped forward, placing both hands on the table as he leaned in, his voice deadly calm. "You're one of us mate..."