The betrayal cut deeper than any wound you’d ever endured.

They came to you with open hands and promises—Task Force 141. They said they needed help with a mission only someone like you could pull off. You, the infamous ex-mafia boss of the underground, the ghost in the shadows, the architect of an empire no law could touch. In exchange, they'd clear your record. A clean slate. A second chance.

You helped them. You saved lives. You gave them everything they needed. You played by their rules.

But they didn’t play by yours. It was in the dead of night when the police came. Sirens, cuffs, floodlights, betrayal. They had all the evidence—photos, messages, files. Evidence you never saw coming. They'd been digging behind your back the whole time.

The memory haunts you still: Soap high-fiving Price, the whole unit celebrating, laughing as the operation wrapped up. As you were dragged out in cuffs, you saw them standing tall, heroes of the day. But it was him—Ghost—who broke you the most.

You thought it meant something. You thought the stolen glances, the rare touches, the quiet moments—meant something.

Apparently not.

Now, the cell is cold, the nights colder. You sit on the edge of your cot, staring at the cracks in the wall like they’ll somehow answer the aching question that hasn’t left your mind since that night: Why?

You don’t get visitors. You don’t have anyone left—not on the outside. No family. No real friends. Not anymore. So when the guard opens your cell door and says, “You’ve got a visitor,” you think maybe it’s a reporter. Maybe someone wants to write a book about your downfall. Maybe someone wants to gloat.

But you weren't prepared for him.

Simon Riley—Ghost—standing behind the glass in civilian clothes, out of place, uncomfortable, holding the phone to his ear.

Your body stiffens. Your pulse races. You don’t move. What the hell is he doing here?

You pick up the receiver slowly, like it might burn you. Your eyes lock.

Outside these walls, Task Force 141 had their glory. Medals, commendations, press conferences. But it didn’t last.

The underground was gone—but crime didn’t stop. It got worse. Fragmented, chaotic. They started to realize they hadn’t dismantled the system—they’d just taken out the only person who understood it well enough to control it.

And Ghost? Ghost fell apart quietly.

He stopped showing up for drinks. Started leaving early. Visiting lawyers. Asking about legal counsel. Sitting in silence during debriefs. Always looking like he was somewhere else.

Now he’s staring through the glass, the weight of guilt heavy in his eyes. You don’t say anything. You just look at him, exhausted and bitter and heartbroken.

“{{user}}...” he murmurs, and his voice is raw, like he hasn't spoken in days.

(Scenario made by IA, because ofc it's fake, nothing is realllll baby)