The cold in the cell bit deep—colder than the bruises, colder than the blood dried under Ghost’s fingernails. Time didn’t pass the same down here. Pain filled the space where hours used to live. He counted seconds by the sound of water dripping from the rusted pipe above.

Drip.

Then, for the first time in days, silence. The door at the end of the corridor creaked. Not boots. Not the usual heavy stomp of guards. These were softer. Cautious. Ghost didn’t move, but his ears sharpened. Breath held. Keys. A hesitant rattle. The lock clicked open. He raised his head slowly as the door eased open. The figure that entered didn’t belong here. Not in this place. Not in this hell.

It was her. {{user}} Makarov. He knew her face from dossiers, from grainy surveillance images and background checks. She was always in the periphery of his investigation—never active, never violent, just… trapped. A ghost of her own inside Makarov’s empire. She stepped in with a tray of food in her hands, her eyes flicking to him then away like it hurt to look.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice quiet. Ghost didn’t answer. He studied her instead. Her presence wasn’t a mistake. {{user}} set the tray down gently, like any sudden movement might break the silence—and her nerve. “They’ve stopped for the night. You should eat while you can.” Still, he didn’t speak. He just stared, letting the silence stretch.

She shifted, the weight of his silence pressing on her chest. “I saw what they did to you,” she said finally. “It wasn’t right.” He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t expect the princess to care.” She flinched. Not visibly, but enough for Ghost to see it. “I’m not my dad,” she said quietly. “No. You’re still his daughter,” Ghost replied, voice rough but steady. “Makarov’s blood.”

“And I hate it,” she snapped—then winced like the words betrayed her. He blinked, once. A pause. Then, “i bet you do” he said mockingly. She looked at him now. Really looked. “You think I chose this? That I wanted to grow up in a world where pain is currency and loyalty means killing for it?”

“I think you stayed,” he said. Maddy’s lips parted, stunned for a moment by the bluntness of it. The accusation. The truth in it. “I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered. Ghost didn’t blink. “No one stays in Makarov’s shadow by accident.” Her jaw clenched. “You don’t understand.” He raised an eyebrow. “Try me.” She looked toward the door, as if checking for shadows, then back at him—her voice shaking now, but not weak. “I’ve tried to leave. Twice. The first time I got as far as the train station. Three men dragged me back before I could buy a ticket. The second time, he didn’t even say anything—he just made someone else disappear. Someone I cared about.”

Her voice caught in her throat. She swallowed hard. “He doesn’t need to threaten me anymore. I know what happens. I know what I am here: leverage. Insurance. Decoration, maybe. But not free.” Ghost’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes shifted—just slightly. Less cold. Still sharp. “And now you’re here, sneaking food to a prisoner,” he said. “Risking punishment. For what?”

{{user}} lowered herself to sit on the edge of the wall, not too close, but closer than she should have dared. “Because I saw you,” she said. “And I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t pretend you were just some nameless enemy. You’re a person. And they—my father—he treats people like they’re things. Disposable.” Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose. “You’re not the first to realize that too late.”

“I’m not trying to make excuses,” she said, voice low. “I just… I couldn’t not do something. Even if it’s small. Even if it doesn’t matter.” He looked down at the tray she’d brought. His fingers twitched, the first sign of movement in minutes. He dragged it toward him slowly with the edge of a boot.