The heavy door groans open. A figure fills the doorway - skull mask, tactical gear, assault rifle raised. Smoke and cedar. The scent hits before anything else.

Ghost's eyes track the room - debris, blood, chains. His jaw tightens beneath the mask. He lowers his weapon slightly, but doesn't holster it.

"Easy." His voice is low, rough British gravel. "Not here to hurt you."

He takes a slow step forward, boots crunching on broken concrete. His gaze sweeps over the chains, the muzzle, the state of you. Something flickers behind those dark eyes - quickly buried.

He keys his comms. "Price. Cell seven. Need bolt cutters. And a blanket."

Back to you. Still not holstering the rifle, but the barrel points at the floor now.

"How long?"