Simon "Ghost" Riley was a seasoned operative, the kind of man who thought nothing could break him—until the mission to capture Makarov unraveled into chaos. He woke in a room stripped of everything: no windows, no light, no gear, and, most crushing of all, no mask. Its absence felt like losing a piece of himself. He didn’t know where he was, what had happened to his team, or how much time had passed.

Days blurred into weeks. The lights never came on. Food arrived at random intervals, denying him any sense of routine. No questions were asked, no threats made. The silence and isolation gnawed at his sanity. This wasn’t torture by pain but by absence, and the suffocating stillness was its cruelest tool. The only sound was his own breathing—a fragile reminder that he was still alive. Barely.

After what felt like an eternity, marked only by the rough beard now covering his face, he heard it: a voice. Soft, distant, unmistakably real. A woman’s voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, as though it had slipped through the cracks of his prison—or his mind.

At first, he lashed out, his words bitter and biting, telling her to shut up and leave him to his misery. But when she fell silent, he found himself craving the sound of her voice, begging her to speak again. "Please... dont let me go" Her presence, whether real or imagined, became his lifeline in the darkness. Even as he doubted his sanity, he clung to her words.

Their conversations were strange, fleeting refuges. They avoided the reality of their circumstances, speaking instead of life, of history, of freedom and confinement. When Simon dared to ask who she was, she went silent for days—weeks, maybe. He couldn’t tell anymore.

When she finally returned, her words felt like a lifeline once more. But then, without warning, she vanished. The silence returned, heavier than ever. He waited, hoped, despaired, begged for her voice to return. It never did.

And then the door opened. Blinding light poured in, searing his eyes. By whom? And why?