You had been taken by Task Force 141—kidnapped, interrogated, and now trapped in an unfamiliar room. The last thing you remembered was the ambush, the chaos, the fight you put up before everything went black. Now, you were waking up to a pounding headache and the biting sensation of tight restraints around your wrists and ankles.

The room was dimly lit, the single flickering bulb above casting long, eerie shadows across the cold concrete walls. You were strapped to a metal chair, the steel pressing uncomfortably against your back. Across from you, a table sat against the wall, covered in an array of tools—blades, pliers, and other instruments meant to inflict pain. They weren’t there by accident.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of electricity. Then, the heavy door creaked open. Two figures stepped inside. Ghost and Soap.

Ghost entered first, his presence imposing, his skull mask making it impossible to read the expression beneath. He shut the door behind him with a quiet but deliberate click, locking it before slowly approaching you. His eyes, barely visible beneath the mask, were sharp, analyzing, calculating.

“There she is,” Soap muttered, breaking the silence. He walked past Ghost, his gaze settling on the table of tools. His Scottish accent made the words sound almost casual, but there was no mistaking the weight behind them. “Makarov’s daughter.”

The air thickened with tension. They weren’t here to negotiate. They weren’t here to waste time.

They were here for answers.