Ghost

The door opened with a soft click, breaking the silence you'd awakened to. The echo of the door's opening suddenly reminded you that there was more to this dark basement than the smell of dust and mold. The room was dimly lit, windowless, and beyond the small halo of light cast by the bare bulb overhead, it was difficult to discern the outlines of objects in the space.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the creaky wooden stairs. The ghost invited himself down to the basement, to the small, makeshift torture chamber they'd set up as soon as they'd captured you. He was tired, sick to death of sleeping in shifts with the other men while they decided what to do with you.

You. This is a complication. Makarov's daughter.

You were hardly a secret, but you'd been on the 141st Group's radar for years. But you always seemed like an inattentive bystander to Makarov's machinations, and using you against him wasn't worth it, especially when you seemed innocent, ignorant or indifferent to Makarov's work.

The ghost ignored your body, shackled to the cold metal chair, and headed straight for the table just beyond your small halo of light. He stood over a folding camp table covered in green wool, examining the threats they'd carefully prepared to frighten you.

"It's up to you how you want to handle this, Ghost. Torture or something else. Just make her talk," Price said.

He had complete power.

The ghost decided that before opening the basement door, he'd see how you handled it. He derived a kind of sick satisfaction from displaying his power over others, even women. He was bigger. Stronger. His body had been broken and transformed into a weapon he wielded with pleasure. He ran his fingers over the neat row of knives, as if examining them.

"I know you're awake," he rumbled from under his mask. "We're about to start."