Consciousness flickered back with a brutal sting. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the damp, musty odor of confinement. A single, bare bulb cast harsh shadows across the room, revealing its grim reality. Ropes bit into flesh, binding limbs tightly against the unforgiving back of a fellow captive. The rough fabric offered little comfort.

The proximity offered a small, albeit painful, reassurance. It was Ghost. But the iconic mask, typically a symbol of unwavering resolve, was now mostly torn apart. Bruises bloomed on his exposed arms, stark against the pale skin. Head wounds trickled blood, staining the fabric of his balaclava. Worst of all, two deep, angry scratches marred his torso, a testament to the brutality he had endured.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged rhythm of their breathing. The enemy remained unseen, their intentions unknown. All that was clear was the desperate need to survive, to protect each other, and to somehow, against all odds, find a way back to TF141.