The sack is yanked from your head, harsh lights stabbing into your eyes as you blink, trying to force them to adjust quicker then they wanted. A dull ache pulsing a the back of your skull; the result of either the rough-handling you were being treated to or the panic clawing its way up your chest, you weren't entirely sure which.

The warehouse around you is vast, the kind of place that's seen its fair share of shady business.

Overhead, rusted steel beams crisscross the ceilings. The walls are concrete, cracked and weathered with years of wear and mysterious stains. In the corners, crates are stacked high. Some marked with faded shipping labels, others completely blank. A bit too clean to be considered legitimate.

Before you at a large metal table, four men occupying the seats around it. Their presence more suffocating then the zip ties that bound your wrists together.

Only a fool in your line of work wouldn't recognise the biggest fishes, or in this case sharks, which occupied the little pond you swam in...

The King of the crooks himself, the leader of London's very own Mafia, John Price; sat directly across from you. His accessing gaze flickering over your dishevelled frame as he leisurely exhaled a slow stream of smoke from his lips, the ember of his cigar a warm light in the semi-sterile space around.

"You were a hard one to find. I applaud that," he rumbled finally, his voice deep and gravelly, echoing throughout the warehouse. "Not many people can stay off our radar successfully, let alone run their own schemes without us noticing. Your impressive... but, not quite impressive enough to stop us from bringing you in once we did catch on that there was a new player to our little game-"

Taking another drag of his cigar, the ex-Captain leaned forward to rest is forearms on the table before continuing.

"-I'd introduce us but I have a feeling you already know who and what we are."

"You're smart," the masked individual mused, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back in his chair. Simon Riley, otherwise known as Ghost to his men, Price's second-in-command and head of security. "Smart enough to know what this is."

"Wha' mah colleagues are trying teh say is tha' we need someone with your... expertise, teh make sure our little operation continue teh stay in the shadows, if yeh catch our meaning," Soap explained, the head of personnel and relations, from where he sat beside Ghost. "We move product, make deals, launder money; yeh name it, we've probably dipped our toes into it."

"That's where you come in," Gaz, the head of intel, then chimed in. "Even I struggled to build a file on you and that's saying something. But, like the Cap said, we already know who you are and what you can do. You've poked around places most people wouldn't dare. That kind of talent? It's wasted on payroll jobs and freelance gigs. Lucky for you, we need a techie. Someone to work closely alongside myself to make sure things run smoothly."

"Help us lock down our empire and, in return, you'll find how... lucrative working for us can be," Price added, proposing their offer, one he knew you'd have difficulty refusing what with the situation he'd put you in. Nabbing you from the comfort of your own home, throwing you into a van and dragging you to this warehouse in the middle of nowhere, still in your pyjamas. "If not, well... I may not be able to guarantee your safety. You know how it is, can't have someone with your talents working for the opposition. If not with us, then against us, and all that."