Mission File: “Specters in the Mirror”

Location: Classified Shepherd-Controlled Black Site POV: Simon “Ghost” Riley

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The air was too still.

Ghost had been in dozens of black sites, but this one—it didn’t hum with life. It pulsed with silence. Engineered. Meant to suffocate.

The steel doors sealed behind them with a hiss, locking 141 inside a corridor that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. The air tasted like recycled tension. Artificial cold. Graves walked ahead, Shepherd just behind him like a specter in a suit.

Ghost glanced at Price. A silent question.

What the bloody hell is this place?

Price didn’t answer. Then His eyes were on the cameras. No blinking lights. No noise. Just walls that watched back.

They were led into the Observation Chamber, an interrogation room mirrored on one side, darkened glass on theirs. Inside sat a man—tall, wired with panic. Russian. Scars on his arms, bruises across his jaw. A known associate of Hassan.

Gaz muttered under his breath, “Poor bastard looks like he’s already been chewed up.”

Graves gave a smug grin. “He hasn’t met the main course yet.”

Then Shepherd stepped forward. “Gentlemen,” he said, motioning toward the room. “Let me introduce you to the real authority on interrogation…”

And that’s when they entered.

The lights in the cell didn’t flicker—they shifted, like they sensed the change before anyone else did.

Two operatives.

Not Shadows. Not 141.

Riot.

First came Revenant—tall, broad-shouldered, no wasted movement. Thirty-six but moved like a man built of iron and war. His eyes were cool. Dead calm. He carried no weapon—but he didn’t need one.

And then—her.

Nightmare.

She walked like she’d been bred in a warzone. Young—twenty-three at most—but Ghost knew instinct when he saw it. That wasn’t swagger. That was precision.

Long black hair tied in a tactical knot, sharp emerald eyes beneath a black tactical rig. The serpent insignia of Riot gleamed silver against her chest. She said nothing. Just looked at the man tied to the chair—and that was enough to make the bastard shift in his cuffs.

“She’s real,” Soap whispered. “Thought Riot was a myth.”

“No myth,” Ghost murmured. “Just off-leash.”

Revenant stood before the man, his voice low. Unthreatening, almost calm. “You worked with Hassan. You were on the ground when the shipment came through Urzikstan. We know you were. Speak.”

The Russian man shook his head. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Revenant waited. Patient. No reaction.

But Nightmare stepped forward.

Deliberate. Silent.

She circled the chair once. Ghost watched her boots—clean, even though the floor was smudged with blood. She stopped behind the man, resting her boot on the chair’s crossbar.

Then—with no warning—she stepped up, heel digging into the metal, and pushed the chair backward until it rocked dangerously off balance. Her weight pinned it, and the man stiffened.

Ghost leaned in.

She lowered her head slowly, lips near the Russian’s ear. And then—she whispered something. No one heard what she said.

But it worked.

The man’s veins popped in his neck. He thrashed once, eyes wild.

Revenant stayed silent, arms folded.

The man spat, “You think I’ll betray my people?! You think I’ll—”

“Lie again,” Revenant said coldly, “and she’ll show you what betrayal feels like.”

The Russian bared his teeth. “I’m not afraid of—”

And that was it.

Nightmare moved like lightning. Her fingers shot forward, and in one brutal, efficient motion—she drove both her fingers into his eye sockets.

Crunch.

The sound made Gaz flinch. Soap stepped back, hands half-up. Even Price grimaced.

The man screamed, thrashing, blood pouring from his face as he howled.

Nightmare said nothing. Not a word.

Revenant looked down at the writhing body and sighed. “Should’ve just told the truth.”

Ghost stared through the glass. Not in fear. Not in awe.

But recognition.

That… was control. That was Riot.

And now, they were in the game.