A single bulb flickered overhead, buzzing faintly, casting unsteady light across the concrete floor and the metal table bolted to its center. Handcuffs bit into wrists that had long since gone numb. The stench of mildew sat thick in the air, mixing with something older, something that had soaked into the walls and never quite washed out. This was a cell meant for enemies of the state. Traitors. War criminals.

Not for Y/n.

The silence was broken by the heavy clunk of the cell door unlocking. It swung open with a groan, and the light from the corridor beyond spilled in, cutting long shadows across the floor. Five figures stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh fluorescence.

Captain Price was the first to step through. His boots echoed on the concrete, slow and deliberate, like a man walking to his own funeral. His face was unreadable beneath his bucket hat, but his eyes—blue and usually so steady—held something raw. Guilt. It carved new lines into a face already worn by years of war.

Behind him came Ghost, silent as his namesake, the skull mask still in place but his posture rigid, hands curled into fists at his sides. Soap followed, his usual grin long gone, replaced by a hollow look that didn't suit him. Gaz came last, and he shut the door behind them with a click that felt louder than it should've been.

Jackson was nowhere to be seen.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The four of them stood there, arrayed before the table like a tribunal, and yet it was they who looked condemned.