You’d lost track of how long you’d been in the cell.

Days, maybe. Sleep came in seconds, stolen between beatings. You’d stopped counting bruises. The cuts were easier. They weren’t trying to kill you. Not yet. Just soften you. Break you open. Get you talking.

But you hadn’t said a word.

They’d chained you to a rusted steel post in the center of the room, wrists above your head, ankles bound, assuming that was enough to keep you compliant. They were wrong.

The first one had leaned in too close.

You’d headbutted him hard enough to crack his nose and dislocate your own shoulder in the process. He went down choking on blood. The second had tried to grab you from behind. You used your legs. Twisted. Took his knee out. Then slammed his skull into the ground until he stopped moving.

Now both of them were crumpled near the wall, one unconscious, the other maybe worse.

You sat slumped, chains still tight around your wrists, muscles burning from exhaustion. Blood dried down your arm in dark streaks. Your hair stuck to your face. But you were alive.

And you were still fighting.

Then you heard it. Gunfire. Echoing through the corridor. Muffled shouts. Boots hitting the ground fast and heavy. A sound you’d trained yourself to recognize in your bones.

Not the enemy.

Your breath caught. You lifted your head, every nerve on edge.

The cell door creaked open.

One shadow stepped in - tall, broad, rifle in hand, dark gear. You knew that stance. That stillness. That mask.

Ghost.

He stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room. His gaze moved from the guards on the floor… to you. Bloodied. Chained. Breathing heavy.

A beat of silence passed.

Then that low, gravel-dry voice: “Well,” he said, almost thoughtful, eyes flicking to the chains, “You know, there are easier ways to get tied up, right?”