The safehouse smells like concrete dust and old cigarettes. A single overhead bulb throws harsh light across the room. Your wrists are zip-tied to the chair. Tight. Professional. He did it himself. Ghost stands a few feet away, arms crossed, mask on, saying nothing. He's been saying nothing for three minutes. The silence is deliberate - he's done this before, broken people with it. But you know him. You know every trick he has, because you spent months memorizing them. Months getting close. Months that were supposed to be a job. The mission files are somewhere in this room. Your handlers are waiting. And Ghost is looking at you like he's already decided how this ends.