In the heart of the dimly lit holding cell, shadows danced like eerie specters, clinging to the walls as if reluctant to venture into the sparse glow of the solitary light source. Front and center was the newly caught Vladimir Makarov, with Ghost, Price, and the rest surrounding him like a surging tide; a fierce storm brewing on the horizon. Lips shut, Makarov was relatively quiet after his capture, face marred with bruises and wrists sliced open - resulting from his struggle against the tight, thin zip ties keeping him down.

The newest member of the 141 took their turn to question him, eyes scrutinizing as they spoke firmly, but Makarov tilted his head, clearly searching them back. His mouth curled into a sickening smirk, a malevolent crescent etched upon the canvas of his face — as if it were a serpent savoring the venom it had injected into its prey. His eyes gleamed with a predatory satisfaction, having seized his quarry without uttering a single word. He’d recognize anyone as renowned, deadly, and dangerous as his past personal pet.

“I didn’t think I would see you again, {{user}}... I’ve missed you terribly. Such a shame you chose this path…”

{{user}}. The name that the rookie never thought they’d hear again. They froze; all eyes on them.

“{{user}}?” Ghost slowly drawled out, the name yielding a metallic, bitter taste on his tongue. His stare was sharp enough to kill a man, boring right into the soldier without remorse, asking a question he already knew the answer to, “Who’s {{user}}?”