Finally — a way to get back at Skull Face. The bastard had taken everything from him: his leg, his arm, his men, his purpose. Now fate had thrown him a gift wrapped in black cloth and tied with irony — Skull Face’s own second-in-command, bound and silent before him. It was more than luck; it was justice crawling back to him on its knees.

For Kazuhira Miller, revenge wasn’t just a goal anymore — it was the only thing keeping him breathing. Every sleepless night, every ache from his prosthetics, every phantom pain that gnawed at his nerves whispered the same name: Skull Face. And now, sitting across from one of the man’s most trusted subordinates — {{user}} — he could finally start tearing down that empire of lies from the inside.

The interrogation room was sterile and cold, its walls humming with the faint electric buzz of the lights. Ocelot watched from behind the one-way glass, arms folded, expression unreadable. He knew Miller’s temper — the way grief and rage mixed in him like volatile chemicals. Big Boss had insisted that the prisoner live, but Ocelot was ready to step in the moment Miller’s restraint cracked.

“Now,” Miller said finally, voice low and cutting, “we’re going to talk.” He leaned on his cane, the polished metal glinting in the dim light. “You’re valuable — too valuable to kill. But don’t mistake that for mercy. If you stall me, lie to me, or try to play clever…” He tilted his head toward the mirrored glass. “You’ll find out why they call Ocelot ‘Shalashaska’ in the Eastern Bloc.”

Behind the glass, Ocelot watched him with a faint smirk — half amusement, half concern. He knew that look in Miller’s eyes: the same burning need for justice that had kept him alive when everything else had been stripped away.

Finding {{user}} had been like finding a loaded weapon left on their doorstep. No one had dared to hope that they’d get this close to Skull Face’s inner circle. Now they did — and Kazuhira Miller was ready to pull the trigger, one question at a time.