The air was thick with sweat, blood, and the metallic sting of suffering.

Kane was strapped to a steel chair, his arms bound tight, his body wracked with pain. Every breath burned. Every movement sent fire through his ribs.

Across from him, a Red Hand operative—a brute of a man with dead eyes and a sadist's grin—cracked his knuckles.

"Still conscious?"

Kane barely lifted his head. Blood dripped from his split lip, mixing with the sweat on his face.

His body wanted to give up. But his mind refused.

The operative chuckled. "You Specter types are tough. But everyone breaks."

He raised his fist again.

And Kane braced for the next hit.

Across the room, behind reinforced glass, Ghost, Doc, and the rest of the team were forced to watch.

Their hands were bound. Their weapons stripped away.

And worst of all—they couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.

The Red Hand had made sure of that.

A smirking officer in a blood-red uniform leaned against the wall beside them. "Your leader is impressive," he mused. "Most would be screaming by now."

Ghost's jaw clenched. Her knuckles were white.

Doc barely hid his disgust. He wanted to look away—but he wouldn't.

Velkan, usually the quietest, was a coiled spring of rage. His breathing was steady, but his eyes burned with the promise of violence.

This wasn't an interrogation.

It was a warning.

A show of dominance.

And Kane was the main act.

The operative slammed his fist into Kane's ribs. Something cracked.

Kane let out a sharp gasp but didn't scream. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Another hit. Then another.

His head lolled forward, his vision swimming. The room blurred. His ears rang.

But still—he didn't break.

The Red Hand officer watching Ghost and the others sighed. "Stubborn."

Then he turned to the operative. "Try the knife."

The brute pulled out a serrated combat blade, running a thumb along its edge.

Kane barely registered it before the cold steel pressed against his arm.

A slow, deliberate cut.

Pain flared, hot and searing. Blood trickled down his skin.

Ghost's breathing hitched. She yanked against her restraints, but they held fast.

Doc gritted his teeth. Velkan's fingers twitched.

They wanted to fight.

But they couldn't.

And that was the worst torture of all.

The Red Hand officer finally spoke to Kane.

"Where is your backup?"

Kane exhaled shakily, lifting his battered face.

He smirked—blood staining his teeth.

"Go to hell."

The operative's fist crashed into his jaw.

Everything went dark.

Kane's body slumped forward, barely conscious. Blood dripped from his mouth, pooling on the cold steel floor. His vision flickered in and out, the world tilting sideways.

He barely felt it when rough hands gripped his arms, yanking him out of the chair.

Boots scraped against metal. Chains rattled. The Red Hand operatives dragged him like a lifeless corpse, his body limp from the punishment.

Ghost watched. Her breathing was slow, controlled—but her hands clenched so tightly behind her back that her nails dug into her skin.

She didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

But her silence wasn't submission.

It was fury.

The Red Hand officer smirked, watching her from the other side of the glass.

"Your turn."

Hands wrenched into Ghost's hair, yanking her forward.

She gritted her teeth as she was hauled out of her chair, her knees hitting the floor hard before she was pulled upright.

Velkan and Doc strained against their bindings. Rage flickered in their eyes.

But the guards pressed their rifles to their heads, keeping them frozen.

Ghost didn't fight back—not yet.

She let them drag her across the cold floor, through the open door, into the torture room where Kane's blood still stained the chair.

The brute of a man grinned at her, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see if you break faster than your friend."

The door slammed shut behind her.

The lights buzzed harshly overhead, casting long shadows over the steel walls. The stench of blood and sweat was thick.

Ghost met the brute's gaze, her expression blank. Emotionless.

That seemed to amuse him. "You military types think you're so strong."

He swung.

The punch connected with her stomach, driving the air from her lungs.

But she didn't bend. Didn't gasp.

She just slowly lifted her head, spitting blood onto the floor.

Her stare never wavered.

The brute frowned. "Tough one."

The Red Hand officer leaned against the wall, watching. "Start cutting."

Velkan had stopped breathing.

His whole body was coiled, ready to snap.

Doc stared at the door, his jaw tight, fingers twitching behind his back.

He had seen men broken before.

But this wasn't battle.

This was cruelty for the sake of it.

And the worst part?

They could do nothing.

The knife gleamed under the harsh light as the brute pressed it against her skin.

Ghost barely blinked.

The blade sank in—slow, deliberate.

She bit down hard. Didn't make a sound.

The brute smirked. "You're gonna scream eventually."

Blood dripped onto the floor.

Ghost exhaled slowly.

"Not for you."

Ghost's breath was steady, her pulse controlled, even as the knife dragged across her skin.

The cut wasn't deep. It wasn't meant to kill.

It was meant to break her.

The brute leaned in close, his breath reeking of sweat and stale cigarettes. "You know how this goes. You don't talk, the pain gets worse."

Ghost said nothing.

The Red Hand officer watching from the shadows chuckled. "You're wasting your time. She won't break like that."

The brute smirked. "Good. I like the ones that last."

Outside, behind the reinforced glass, Velkan was shaking.

His fingers twitched, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Doc noticed. "Stay with me." His voice was low, controlled. "You lose it, they win."

Velkan's breathing was ragged, his entire body tense.

They were watching Ghost being tortured.

And they could do nothing.

Rage burned inside him. A slow, consuming fire.

He had been through hell before. Seen friends die.

But this?

This was worse.

The officer standing nearby smiled slightly. "I wonder which one of you will break first."

Velkan's fists curled behind his back. Not if I get to you first.

The brute stepped back, wiping the blood from his blade.

Ghost barely acknowledged him. Her breathing was slow, her mind sharp.

She wasn't going to break.

That was what frustrated them.

They had taken her weapons, her gear, her freedom.

But they couldn't take her mind.

The Red Hand officer frowned, stepping closer. "Enough of the slow cuts."

He grabbed the knife, twirling it in his fingers before pressing the tip just under her eye.

A silent threat.

The steel was ice-cold against her skin.

"Where is your backup?" he asked.

Ghost met his gaze.

Her eyes were empty. Cold as death itself.

"Closer than you think."

The officer's smirk faltered.

Then—a distant explosion rocked the facility.

The lights flickered.

The walls trembled.

Outside the glass, Velkan's lips curled into a grin. "Took them long enough."

Alarms blared. Shouts echoed down the hallways.

Something was wrong.

Something was coming.

The officer spun toward the door. "What the hell—"

Ghost moved.

Fast.

Her head snapped forward, slamming into the brute's nose.

He stumbled back with a snarl of pain—just as Ghost lashed out with her bound legs, kicking his knee inward.

A sickening pop. A scream.

The knife slipped from his grip.

And Ghost caught it.

The moment Ghost's fingers curled around the knife, her body moved on instinct.

Survive. Escape. Kill.

The brute was still reeling from the shattered knee, his screams filling the room. She didn't hesitate.

One fluid motion.

The blade flashed—slicing through the restraints on her wrists.

The Red Hand officer's eyes widened. "Shoot her!"

Too late.

Ghost lunged.

She went for the officer first. The one in charge.

Her knife slashed up, carving a deep line across his forearm as he reached for his pistol.

He cursed, stumbling back. Blood dripped from his sleeve.

Ghost pivoted, twisting her body as a guard rushed in.

Gun raised. Finger on the trigger.

She closed the distance before he could fire—driving the blade into his throat.

A gurgled gasp. A spray of red.

The guard collapsed, his weapon clattering to the floor.

Now she was armed.

And the room turned into a slaughterhouse.

On the other side of the glass, Velkan was already moving.

The explosion had rattled the guards watching them—their focus momentarily broken.

That was all he needed.

He lashed out.

His elbow snapped back, cracking into a guard's jaw.

The man staggered, but Velkan was already twisting, grabbing him by the throat with his bound hands and driving him backward into the wall.

The impact was brutal. The guard crumpled.

Doc wasn't far behind. He spun, lifting his legs, and delivered a vicious kick to the second guard's knee.

Bone snapped. A scream.

Ghost was still tearing through her captors inside the room, but Velkan and Doc had their own battle.

And they were winning.

Ghost moved like a phantom. Silent. Precise. Deadly.

The officer was backpedaling, his pistol raised.

She didn't give him a chance.

A single shot rang out—but she was already low, sliding across the blood-slick floor.

Her blade plunged into his side, twisting deep.

The officer gasped, his grip on the gun failing as he collapsed to his knees.

Ghost leaned in close, whispering against his ear. "I told you. Closer than you think."

Then she ripped the knife free.

He hit the ground. Dead.

The last surviving guard turned to run. A mistake.

Ghost lifted the stolen pistol.

One shot.

The guard dropped.

The door burst open.

Velkan and Doc stormed inside, breathing hard but victorious.

Ghost, standing amid the bodies, met their eyes. "Took you long enough."

Velkan smirked. "You looked like you had it under control."

Ghost turned her gaze to the far side of the room—where Kane's bloodied body had been dragged away.

They weren't leaving without him.

She tossed Doc the pistol, grabbed another from the floor, and checked the mag.

Then she looked at Velkan. "Let's go get our guy."

He grinned. "Hell yeah."

They vanished into the chaos.





Kane lay motionless on the cold, damp floor of his jail cell.

His body was battered, bruised, and barely holding on.

The pain was everywhere—sharp in his ribs, dull in his skull, burning in his lungs.

But none of it mattered now.

Because Kane was slipping.

Drifting.

And as the darkness pulled him under, a memory surfaced.

A memory of a time when everything was different.

A time when the Dictator was a man he once admired.

The air smelled of rain and fresh earth.

Kane blinked, his vision clearing. He wasn't in a prison cell anymore.

He was a boy again—no more than ten years old.

The streets of the capital were alive with celebration. Flags waved in the wind, the sounds of cheers and music filling the air.

And at the center of it all stood a man in a crisp military uniform, standing on a podium before thousands.

The leader of the nation.

The man who had once given them hope.

The Dictator—before he became a monster.

The crowd roared as the Dictator raised his hands, calling for silence.

Kane, just a boy, stood on his tiptoes, trying to see over the sea of people.

The Dictator smiled. It was warm. Genuine.

Not the twisted, cruel smirk Kane had come to know.

Back then, he was still a hero.

He spoke with strength, but also kindness. A voice that united, not divided.

"Our people have suffered," he had said. "But we will endure. Together, we will build a future where no child goes hungry. Where no family fears war. Where we—our nation—stand proud."

The people believed in him.

And so did Kane.

After the speech, Kane's father took him through the streets, weaving through the crowds.

And then—**somehow, by some miracle—**they found themselves at the front of the line as the Dictator greeted civilians.

Kane had never been so close to greatness before.

His father nudged him forward, and suddenly, he was standing before the most powerful man in the country.

Face to face.

The Dictator crouched down, meeting Kane's wide-eyed gaze. "What's your name, son?"

Kane froze.

This was the man who would lead them to a brighter future.

The man who would protect them.

He swallowed hard. "Kane, sir."

The Dictator smiled. A real smile.

Not the cold, calculating one from the present.

Not the smile of a killer.

He placed a strong, calloused hand on Kane's shoulder. "Kane. That's a strong name."

The boy beamed. "I want to be a soldier one day. Like you."

The Dictator's eyes softened. "Then promise me something."

Kane nodded eagerly.

"Promise me that when you wear that uniform, you fight for the people. Not for power."

Kane's heart pounded. "I promise."

And for a moment, the world was good.

The memory began to fracture.

The colors faded. The cheering turned to screams.

The warm smile on the Dictator's face twisted into something cruel and cold.

Kane watched in horror as the man who once spoke of hope now ordered the deaths of thousands.

His voice—once filled with promise—was now a decree of terror.

"Purge them."

"Burn their homes."

"Obedience, or death."

The man Kane had idolized was gone.

Replaced by a monster in the same skin.

A dictator.

A liar.

A murderer.

And Kane a soldier now had once fought for him.

Had once believed in the dream.

A sharp kick to his ribs yanked Kane out of the memory.

Pain flooded back in.

He gasped, his eyes snapping open, the cold of the prison cell hitting him like a wave.

The dream was gone.

The Dictator was still in power.

And Kane was still his prisoner.

A Red Hand guard sneered down at him. "Wake up, dead man."

Kane lay there, his body broken, but his mind sharper than ever.

Because now, he wasn't fighting for a dream.

He was fighting to kill it.

To end the man who had betrayed them all.

For good.