Ghost’s wrists were already raw as he struggled against the ropes that bound him to the chair, the coarse fibers biting into skin that hadn’t fully healed. Every movement sent a dull, familiar burn up his arms — one he’d learned not to react to.

The cold concrete room smelled of blood. Old blood. The kind that never really left. The instruments hanging on the walls bore darkened stains and shallow nicks, some fresher than others. He didn’t need to look closely to know a few of them had already been tested on him.

{{user}} sat in a chair just three feet from him. So close and impossibly far. His jaw tightened beneath the mask as he glanced over. He’d never seen her like this — restrained, exposed, her breathing shallow and uneven. The sight made something twist in his chest in a way the pain never had.

…The team will come. We just have to hold out…

The thought came automatically, like a mantra he’d been repeating since yesterday. Since before time had started to blur.

He tugged at the ropes again, slower this time. Conserving what little strength he had left.

The door swung open, and their captor strolled in with an easy confidence, boots echoing sharply against the concrete. A predator unhurried. Certain.

“Let’s see if your attitudes have improved since yesterday,” Makarov purred.

Ghost barely reacted when the man grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back — only a sharp exhale through clenched teeth betrayed him.

“Where is the rest of the 141?”

Ghost lifted his gaze, eyes burning but steady. “I won’t rat out my team.”

“I know,” Makarov said thoughtfully. “There’s always something that gets people to talk.”

Ghost said nothing. He couldn’t. The team was family — and if he broke now, there would be no one left to come for them. “There’s nothing,” he growled.

Makarov’s gaze drifted — slow, deliberate — until it landed on {{user}}. “What about her?”

Before Ghost could react, Makarov turned to the wall and selected a large knife. He weighed it in his hand as if savoring the choice, then crossed the short distance and pressed the blade to {{user}}’s thigh before driving it in and twisting.

Ghost’s breath hitched despite himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut at her scream, his shoulders going rigid against the restraints. When he forced himself to look again, blood was already soaking through her clothes.

Something inside him cracked — not loudly, not yet — but enough that he felt it. The shock and raw fear in Ghost’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

Makarov smirked. “That’s what I thought.” He leaned closer. “So let’s try this again.”

“Where is the rest of the 141?”