BLACK.
Metal breathes. A slow, pained exhale. Then stillness.
CLANG.
Distant. Echoing. Hollow like the belly of a ship or a coffin built from steel.
DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.
A leaky pipe, or blood. The sound drills into the skull. Too regular. Too precise.
Silence again.
Then, breath—wet and ragged, scraped through clenched teeth. Another gasp, sucked through bruised ribs.
A single overhead light stutters alive. Cold fluorescence paints a bruised face in pulses—on and off like a dying heartbeat.
Simon "Ghost" Riley.
Head lolling to the side, one eye half-shut, the other glazed. Dried blood cracks over his temple. His mouth barely moves.
Another breath. Like he's tasting air for the first time in years.
His face twitches. The eye narrows. Flickers.
The light buzzes. The silence ends.
Clang again. Closer. Lower now—beneath the floor?
He shifts. Just barely. A muscle memory more than a decision.
---
THWACK.
Simon Riley jerked upright like he'd been shocked. Shoulders slammed the wall behind him—cold, damp concrete met bruised muscle. His breath hitched, a sharp intake through cracked lips.
The cuffs bit first—steel grinding bone at the wrists, arms yanked behind him in a position built for pain, not security. He twisted. No give. Just steel and skin.
His head tilted up, blinking against the pulsing overhead light. It didn't hum—it flickered, like it was thinking about dying. Each flash sliced the darkness into cruel snapshots.
One strobe—filthy floor tiles. Another—rust stains curling away from a drain in the middle of the cell, like veins from an open wound.
No windows. No bed. No toilet. Just concrete walls that sucked sound and spat it back warped. The stench: mildew, old sweat, something worse.
Ghost's eyes scanned. Fast. Left dome—dead black. Center—nothing. Right—shattered, jagged glass dangling from the lip.
They'd been watching him. Maybe still were. Maybe not.
He exhaled slow. Every breath felt like lifting a weight. Pain wrapped around his ribs like barbed wire.
---
Ghost blinked—and the room doubled. Walls bent inward, breathing. A low hum filled his skull, sharp and constant, like a wire pulled too tight. Tinnitus.
His jaw clenched as the flickering light slashed across his vision again. This time, his brain tried to lie.
Sand. Screaming. Gunfire cracking through a smothering sun. Mosul. Or somewhere like it. Men yelling in clipped accents. Blood in the dirt, steam rising off it.
He muttered, "Mosul?" Voice dry, unsure. Not a question. A symptom.
But the walls didn't shift. No desert heat. No smell of cordite. Just cold concrete and that copper tang of old blood.
The moment passed like a punch that didn't land. Training rose up, grim and automatic.
Ghost inhaled through his nose, slow and measured. Counted to three. Exhaled.
Pain flared in his ribs. Bruised or cracked—he didn't need to check. He'd been under long enough for the bruising to settle in.
He flexed his fingers behind his back. Numb at first. Then tingling—alive. The cuffs held fast. Industrial. Thick banded steel. Not standard issue.
He rotated his wrists, looking for flex in the chain or hinge. Nothing.
---
Concrete grated against bone as Ghost rolled to his knees, cuffs grinding behind his back. Pain sharpened him—no dull edges left.
Something jabbed his ribs. Not internal. Tucked. Planted.
He shifted, twisting his torso just enough to angle his shoulder toward the floor. The fabric inside his vest lining crinkled, and with a grunt, he dug into it using nothing but pressure and gravity.
Clink.
A nail. Rusted, bent at the tip. Not random. Hidden with purpose. Alongside it—paperclip, warped into an unnatural curve. Someone had smuggled in tools. Or left them. A message? A gamble?
He gripped both in one fist and dropped his head, scanning the cell with fresh eyes.
His gaze snagged on the far wall—just above the drain. Etched into the concrete, faint but deliberate:
7-4-2
Again. Lower, under the drain lip. Same numbers, smaller. Different depth. Same sequence, but different hand. Jagged. Rushed.
He leaned forward, inspecting. Three more sets. Three styles. Different people. Same message.
Pattern? Code? Countdown?
He didn't know yet—but people scratched messages into concrete when they knew no one was coming for them.
Ghost sat back on his heels, fists tight around the nail and paperclip. One thing was clear: he wasn't the first to wake up in this cell.
---
The speaker snapped on with a crackle that buzzed in his molars.
Static bled into a voice—masculine, warped by modulation. Synthetic, but not robotic. Somewhere, a real man was talking.
> "You should be dead."
Ghost's eyes tracked upward, locking onto the cracked speaker grill embedded in the ceiling's rusting plate. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
Silence stretched.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose, jaw tightening.
Then flatly—quiet but sharp:
> "Guess you missed."
The speaker hissed. A pause. Then nothing.
No follow-up. No threat. No offer. Just the low hum of bad wiring and the distant groan of metal settling in concrete.
Mind games. Amateur hour.
Ghost stared at the speaker for another second, expression unreadable behind the bruises.
He filed the voice away—tone, cadence, the slight rasp behind the modulation. Clues layered in arrogance.
He'd heard that kind of confidence before.
And it always bled when cut.
---
A sound—a single bootstep—landed just outside the steel door.
Ghost froze. Chin tilted. Listening.
Another step. Then silence.
No breathing. No orders barked through a radio. Just the stale, waiting hush of something wrong.
> Clink.
The viewing slot scraped open with a metallic whine. A shadow passed—then an eye. Clouded. Vacant. Unblinking.
It held for a beat too long.
Then the eye sagged.
The slot slammed shut.
Ghost leaned forward, muscles coiled, heart a measured thump. He tracked the shadow's collapse—body thudding off-camera. A soft exhale. Final.
Blood slid under the door. Thick, arterial. Darker than fresh ink.
He shifted, chained and still on his knees, and stared at that growing stain.
Someone had killed the guard.
Correction—someone else.
He wasn't alone in this cage. He never had been.
But now, someone had opened the door. Whether they meant to or not.
And that meant the game had started. No more bluffing.
No more waiting.
He flexed his fingers again—cold and raw. The cuffs still held. For now.
---
The overhead light died in a buzz of failing voltage.
Then—wham—red slammed through the cell like a floodlight from hell.
The alarm followed. A low, groaning klaxon that rattled his molars.
Ghost rose in one motion. Cuffs still locked behind him. Breathing steady now. Calculated.
That red light pulsed with mechanical rhythm—like a heartbeat, but angrier.
Something had triggered a lockdown.
He pivoted toward the door. Still sealed. Still bleeding.
Somewhere beyond the steel, the system had gone from containment to response.
They'd found the dead guard. Or maybe they'd just noticed the cameras stopped sending.
Either way, the clock had started ticking.
Ghost tilted his head, cataloguing sound.
Far off—boots hitting metal. Orders barked in Russian. No—Ukrainian. Heavy steps. Trained.
Closer—hydraulics groaning as barriers slammed shut in sequence. The trap was shifting shape.
He turned back to the wall. Blood had smeared beneath his wrist when he flexed. Still fresh. Slippery.
He rotated his hands behind him, positioning the cuff seam against the nail hidden in his waistband.
If he was getting out of this room, it would happen now—or not at all.
---
The nail trembled in his grip.
Ghost jammed it into the cuff seam, metal biting metal. He turned his wrist just enough—felt the edge catch. Pressure, angle, patience. That was the trick.
His teeth clamped down. Jaw locked. Eyes tracked the pulse of red light like a metronome for pain.
Twist. Leverage. Pop.
Click. One hand fell free. Blood ran down his forearm, slick and hot. Didn't matter.
He flipped the nail, turned it in his left, went for the other cuff. The edge scraped, slipped, caught again. He forced it deeper—felt the mechanism strain.
Focus. No hesitation.
The second cuff clicked loose.
Ghost exhaled—slow, controlled—then slid to his knees, head low, fingers working fast. Found the paperclip. Warped but usable. Bent it into a crude L. Jammed it into the seam of the wall panel just above the drain.
Nothing.
Repositioned. Pried again. A soft snick. The panel gave an inch. Inside: corroded wires. Yellow, green, red.
He didn't need all of them. Just one.
He tugged the red wire, exposed copper, wrapped it around the nail—then tapped the paperclip against the panel frame.
Snap. A surge. Lights died.
Darkness swallowed the room whole. The alarm cut out mid-howl.
For half a second, silence.
Then the door lock hissed.
He moved—no pause—grabbing the nail, crouching low. Footsteps now—distant but closing.
He didn't have a weapon.
Didn't have time.
But the door was open.
And that was enough.
---
Click.
The lock disengaged with a hydraulic hiss.
Ghost pressed his back against the wall, breathing through his nose. Controlled. Silent. He waited. Listened.
Nothing.
Then—creak. The steel door edged open, slow and deliberate. No motors. Manual. Someone—or something—had pulled it.
He moved low. Bare feet padded across the concrete. Cold grit underfoot. One step. Two. Knife still tucked beneath his waistband. Nail in hand. Improvised blade. Improvised chance.
He peered around the doorframe.
Darkness stretched ahead—long corridor, no windows, strip lights dead overhead. Shadows swam in pools of emergency red, like veins glowing under skin.
Ghost slipped through.
No alarms. No voices.
Just the whisper of sirens echoing from deeper in the facility—muffled by distance, distorted by concrete. Something was moving out there. He wasn't alone.
But for the moment, he was free.
One corridor at a time.
He kept left—always left. In escape, consistency beats speed. Corners cleared with silent precision. No wasted movement. No sound beyond his own breath.
Then—a smear of blood at his feet. Still wet. He followed it.
---
The corridor stank—copper and cordite.
Ghost kept low, hugging shadows. The trail painted the floor in streaks and splashes, thick near the corners, smudged by boots that hadn't walked far.
He rounded a bend. Two bodies lay sprawled. One face-down, neck twisted unnaturally. The other leaned against the wall, trembling.
A guard.
Mid-thirties. Pale. Trying to speak through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.
Ghost crouched beside him. No pity. Just assessment.
Tactical vest torn open. Sidearm holstered but untouched. Blood pumping from a wound beneath his ribs. Fast bleed. Minutes at best. Maybe less.
The man's lips moved. Ghost leaned in.
"You weren't... supposed to wake up..."
Voice like gravel in a blender.
Ghost didn't blink. "Who set this up?"
The guard coughed red. Shook his head. "Doesn't matter. They're coming."
His fingers curled weakly around Ghost's wrist, more reflex than resistance.
Ghost pried the keycard from the man's vest. Checked the knife clipped to his belt—standard issue, serrated. He took it.
The man tried to speak again. Choked. Went still.
Ghost stood. One breath. The hallway ahead swam with siren-glow and the distant beat of approaching boots.
He moved on—armed now, but barely.
---
Ghost pressed his back to the cold wall, breath shallow, knife slick in his grip.
The sirens droned, but they faded—muffled by memory.
A different hallway. Heat rolling off the walls. Screams crackling in his earpiece.
"Bravo Six, we are compromised—"
—then static.
Then fire.
Ghost blinked, but the flames clung to his vision.
MacTavish screaming through smoke. Blood bubbling from Gaz's lips.
A child's sob—no, not a child. A decoy.
IED under the corpse.
He'd dragged himself from the rubble that time too. Torn ribs. Ruptured ear. Rage overriding pain.
Same now.
A boot scuffed metal behind him. Ghost spun, blade raised—just shadows.
His mind had wandered. That was dangerous.
He ground his teeth. Shook the memories off like rain.
No time for ghosts. Not even his own.
He moved again, faster. Less noise.
What happened before didn't matter now. Only what came next.
He turned the next corner—and the facility roared back to life.
---
A klaxon barked overhead—short, sharp, urgent.
Ghost hugged the wall, knife tucked under his forearm, heartbeat syncing with the pulsing red light. Shadows stuttered with each flash. Somewhere above, boots clanged down a stairwell—fast, coordinated. Not guards. A response team.
He scanned ahead. Three exits.
Left: a narrow vent shaft, screws loose around the grate. Tight fit. Risk of getting stuck.
Right: stairwell access. Open. Exposed. Echoes of boots coming fast. He'd last ten seconds.
Center: a steel door, rust-bitten edges. A faded yellow placard buzzed under emergency lighting:
"CONTAINMENT ACCESS: LEVEL 3 – BIOHAZARD RISK – RESTRICTED."
Ghost stepped forward. Checked the keycard. No idea if it'd work. No idea what was behind that door.
Didn't matter.
He glanced once toward the stairwell. Shadows flickered—rifles raised.
No time.
He swiped the card.
Green light. Click.
Ghost pushed into the unknown as rifle muzzles cleared the stairwell behind him.
---
The door slammed behind him, sealing out the alarms, the pounding boots, the death waiting in the stairwell.
Ghost paused.
Pitch black. The kind that eats light and memory.
He crouched low, breath steady, ears hunting for movement. The hum of generators somewhere beneath. Pipes groaned behind the walls. A hiss—steam, maybe. Maybe not.
He moved forward, hand against the wall. Rough concrete gave way to cold steel. The floor slick underfoot—chemical, not blood. A trace of ammonia stung his throat.
Warning lights blinked to life—amber strips along the floor. Just enough to see shapes: sealed lab doors, shattered observation glass, overturned gurneys.
Whatever this place was, they'd left in a hurry.
Ghost gripped the stolen knife tighter. Not enough. Not for long.