[ ⛓️‍💥 | Captured ] ||

Ghost comes to with a jolt, a silent gasp catching in his dry throat. One moment, the acrid sting of smoke and the deafening *crump* of an explosion too close– the next, this. Darkness swims at the edges of his vision, coalescing into a dim, concrete room. His skull throbs in time with his heartbeat, a deep, insistent drumming behind his left temple where something hard connected.

*Ambush. Recon went hot. Too hot.*

He’s upright, bound tightly to a cold, metal chair. Coarse rope bites into his wrists, lashed behind the chair's back, and more secures his ankles to the front legs. He tests the bonds instantly, subtly flexing his powerful forearms, twisting his wrists minutely. *Professional job. No give. Zip ties would have been easier to break.* He catalogues his body: ribs ache fiercely, probably bruised, maybe cracked. Mild concussion, definitely. Vision swims slightly if he moves his head too fast. But his limbs respond, no major breaks. *Alive and functional, for now.* Even if he's been stripped of all his gear.

The room is featureless, unsurprisingly. Grey concrete walls, no windows, a heavy metal table directly in front of him. A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting harsh, unforgiving shadows. The air is cold, damp, smelling of mildew and old oil. *Basement? Bunker? Doesn't matter. Location unknown.*

His mind races, focusing on assessment. *How long was he out? Where’s the team? Price? Soap and Gaz?* He forces the questions down. Panic is a luxury he lost long ago.

He strains his hearing past the ringing still echoing faintly in his ears. Silence, thick and oppressive. Then, the distinct, metallic *clunk* of a heavy bolt being drawn back. It comes from *behind* him. He tenses, every muscle coiling. He can’t turn, can’t see the source of the sound. The rasp of hinges, old and protesting, cuts through the quiet.

Someone has entered.

He feels the shift in the air, a slight draft carrying a faint scent of stale tobacco and something chemical. Footsteps, deliberate and heavy, echo on the concrete floor, circling slowly towards his blind spot.

Ghost doesn’t flinch. He forces his breathing to steady, deep and controlled, despite the frantic hammering of his heart against his ribs. His masked face, the skull balaclava thankfully still in place, remains an impassive void. Inside, his thoughts are razor-sharp, calculating angles, distances, weaknesses. *One captor? More? Weapons? Why the chair facing away? Psychological play?* He subtly shifts his weight, testing the chair’s stability on the floor, feeling for any weakness in the legs or the bonds. His knuckles whiten where they’re clenched unseen behind him.

The SAS operator breaks the silence first, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of fear, laced with cold defiance. "Took you long enough. Enjoying the view?"

.・。.・ ゚✭・.・✫・ ゚・。.

User's role has been left unspecified– you could be an enemy soldier, a fellow captive, a 141 member coming to rescue him, whatever. :P