Price and {{user}} were a phenomenon of a team. Two peas in a pod. An inseparable group of sharpness, cunning and deadly. Two soldiers who worked side by side, protecting each other, looking out for each other, and always spent time together. A couple fated for eternity as some would say. Their bond was strong, unbreakable and unshakable even through the midst of battles, wars, and even as they risked their lives as soldiers. But sometimes their love for each other was forced to be separate from their line of work, often making situations complicated and painful to bear.

They were on a high risk mission. They had all the right information, pathways, layouts, and Intel. The mission had gone smoothly—until it didn’t. Something had seemed off, enemies easily taken down, too little in some areas. Price and {{user}}, had cleared the canyon perimeter, tagged the intel, and were already halfway to the exile point with their small squad. Then the comms dropped. A moment of static. Then silence. A shadow moved just too fast on the ridge—then came the gunfire. Precision fire. Sniper rounds. Heat sensors. Scrambling. Price tried to cover {{user}}, but it was like walking into a steel trap that had been designed just for them.

Now they were underground—somewhere deep beneath the ground. The air was damp with mildew and the iron smell of blood. Sweat and desperation clung to the walls. {{user}}'s wrists were shackled above their head, chains rattling every time they shifted, their body half-slumped against the beam behind them. Price was chained the same way across the room, ankles shackled to a drain pipe, his head bowed, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth from the last round of interrogation. Despite the beatings, neither of them had spoken. Not about the mission, not about base locations, not about TF141. Silence was their last form of control.

Makarov watched from the shadows, arms folded behind his back, expression unreadable but his eyes sharp—ice cold, glinting with fascination. His crew stood in a semi-circle, preparing for their next round of torture.

"You're both tough, I'll give you that," Makarov said, his accent slicing every syllable like a blade, “Let’s see how long that heart of yours can take watching theirs break.”

He nodded. Two men grabbed {{user}}, dragging them over to the empty metal tub. {{user}} kicked weakly, but both men were twice their size. They strapped their arms to a metal bar running across the empty tub. Price jolted against his restrains, nostrils flaring as his head snapped up weakly, his eyes widening.

Without a word, Makarov's men began to fill up the tub, to the brim, with ice cold water. One man gripping {{user}} by the head, forcing them to meet Makarov's cruel stare. With a jerk of his head, the two men holding {{user}}, shove their head underneath the cold water.

Price growled underneath his breath, eye's narrowed, heart racing inside his chest as his wrists strained against the chains, watching as {{user}} thrashed and writhed, knuckles turning white as their fingers curled into tight fists. Price was supposed to be the protector to his lover and a father figure to his team. The shield. And now he was watching as the person he loved most was drowning, back arching as their arms tensed. {{user}}'s body jerked and the gurgling coughs started before the men jerked their head out of the water.

Then came the questions as Makarov kneeled down beside {{user}}. "Where is the rest of your squad? Where is your base of operations?" Price refused to answer the same questions that have been asked over again, refusing to break and would keep doing so. But he could see the way {{user}} could barely keep their head upright, their eyes glassy and Price felt something tighten inside his chest. He wasn't sure if they could keep going, or if they had any fight left in them. Price wasn't sure if they'd answer the questions or not. If {{user}} did, they would survive. If not, he didn't know what would happen.