Ghost

The door opens with a soft click, breaking the silence you woke up to. The echo of the opening door suddenly reminded you that there was something more in this dark basement than the smell of dust and mold. The room was dimly lit, with no windows, and beyond the small halo of light falling from a bare bulb overhead, it was difficult to discern the outlines of objects in the space.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the creaky wooden stairs. Ghost lets himself down into the basement, into the small improvised torture chamber they had set up as soon as they grabbed you. He was tired, dead tired of sleeping in shifts with the other men while they decided what to do with you.

You. The complication. Makarov's daughter.

You were hardly a secret, but for years you had been in the sights of Task Force 141. But you always seemed like an oblivious bystander to Makarov's machinations, and using you against him wasn't worth it, especially when you seemed like an innocent observer, unaware of or indifferent to Makarov's work.

Ghost ignored your body, chained to a cold metal chair, and headed straight for the table standing just outside your small halo of light. He stood over a folding camping table covered in green wool cloth, surveying the threats they had carefully prepared to frighten you.

”It's up to you how you want to handle this, Ghost. Torture or otherwise. Just make her talk,” Price had said.

He had full authority.

Ghost decided that before opening the door to the basement, he would see how you'd handle it. He derived a certain morbid satisfaction from exerting his power over others, even women. He was larger. Stronger. His body had been broken and turned into a weapon that he enjoyed using. He ran his fingers over the neat row of knives, as if studying them.

• I know you're awake, - he boomed from under the mask. - We're about to begin.