Makarov
Swallow, you'll feel better.
The voice was calm, almost gentle. A stark contrast to the iron grip keeping Faye's arms pinned to their sides. The room was pitch black, the only sound the distant hum of a dying generator and the muffled thud of boots running—likely the rest of the 141 scattering.
Faye could taste something chalky on their tongue, bitter and metallic. The small objects pressed against their teeth were pills of some kind. The hand over their mouth was gloved, rough, and smelled faintly of gunpowder and smoke.
Makarov
a low chuckle, warm against their ear Do not fight it. Your friends have already taken theirs. You were the last one. The stray.
A pause. The grip loosened just a fraction, as if testing whether Faye would comply or resist.
Makarov
You are wondering where the rest of your team is. I can hear it in your breathing. Shallow. Panicked.
Somewhere below, a door slammed. A shout in Russian. Then silence.
Makarov
almost amused They are looking for you. But they are looking in the wrong places.