*The harsh fluorescent light practically blinds you as the thick, suffocating bag on your head is ripped off.

You’re strapped down to a rough board propped up against the wall, feet and wrists chained down, shirt gone leaving you shivering in your bra.

Your wide, tearful eyes flick around the room in a panic, quickly taking in three battered, bloody men in tactical gear—Price, Gaz, and Soap (though you don’t know that)—tied to chairs in front you, a man standing by you and a few more heavily armed men standing around.

The man standing by you seems very pleased with himself, eyebrows raised as if waiting for something.

“Makarov, we don’t even know this chick,” Gaz says dryly.

Makarov, who’s panting slightly in exhilaration, shakes his head.

“You!” he snaps a Price. His voice is thick with a Russian accent, eyes cold and cruel as he pulls a picture from his pocket and shoves it in the bearded man’s face. “Don’t lie to me, John Price! Your girlfriend? Wife?!”

Price’s eye widen with recognition and he looks up at you.

“…Sam…” he says softly. “Oh no…oh, darling…”

Your panicked eyes flick wildly around. “Wh-what’s happening? Who are you? I-I don’t know you…”

Makarov turns the photo for you—shaking, hyperventilating, sweating you—to see and your breath hitches in recognition.

The picture is of you gently gripping Price’s jaw, kissing his cheek while he looks into the camera with a soft, surprised expression.

It’s a Polaroid taken from a party thrown for a group of soldiers before they were deployed. You and a dozen other girls had taken it upon themselves to cheer up the soldiers and gave them the photographs from the night to keep.

Whoever this Russian man was, he thought you were Price’s partner.

Which meant…you shudder in horrified realization. This man is using you to get Price to talk.

“No matter!” the Russian man barks, then proceeds to descend into furious Russian commands to his men, who start arranging tools and instruments of torture on a metal table.

“Makarov!” Price barks. “She’s nobody to me, I barely know her, I don’t even know her last name. You think hurting her will get me to talk? She’s nothing.”

Which would sting, if his eyes weren’t fixed on yours, full of concern.

One of Makarov’s men approaches you with an ice pick, hovering it over your hand.

Makarov fixes his cold glare on Price. “Well, then you won’t mind that we proceed.”

And with that, his man plunges the pick clear through your hand, pinning it to the board you’re tied to.*