Work Text:
You became aware of a pounding in your skull as you drifted back to consciousness, along with a painful stiffness that told you you'd been out for a long time. Tentatively, you cracked open an eye — and immediately regretted it as a harsh, blinding light flooded your vision. You shifted slightly with a grunt of discomfort, feeling the tug of restraints binding your arms to your sides. Underneath you, the surface felt like a bed — cold, clinical.
Forcing your eyes open fully, you took in your surroundings: a sterile hospital ward, eerily empty except for you.
"Oh, you're awake!" A surprised voice chimed from somewhere beside you.
You turned your head — a sharp, jerky movement that only made your headache worse — and found a woman in a military uniform standing over you. A clipboard rested in her hands; her hair was pulled back into a tightly wound bun. A combat medic, by the looks of it.
"Where am I?" you rasped, your voice hoarse and dry.
The nurse hesitated, then reached for a cup of water on the bedside table and carefully held it to your lips. You grimaced but allowed it — your arms were still locked down, after all.
"You're in a secured facility," she said finally, her voice even. "I've been instructed not to tell you where."
You let out a slow, exhausted exhale.
"Phenomenal," you muttered. "Any chance you could get me out of these cuffs?"
She offered you a sheepish smile — the kind that said, not a chance.
"I'm going to alert Laswell that you're awake," she said briskly, tucking the clipboard under her arm before leaving the room. Through the half-open door, you heard her murmur something into a phone — too low for you to catch.
Around fifteen minutes had passed, then you heard the door open before you saw her. Footsteps — measured, deliberate — crossed the concrete floor.
Kate Laswell stepped into the ward and made her way towards your bed, a file tucked neatly under one arm, her blazer immaculate despite the chaos that had brought you here. She didn’t sit immediately. Instead, she placed the file carefully on the table to the right of your bed, like a weapon she had no need to draw yet.
"Good morning, Doctor." She greeted you neutrally, "I do apologise for the unorthodox methods we used to get you here. "
She paused, as if waiting for you to speak but you remained silent. Your face must've bore how you truly felt - anger.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” she said, voice even, almost sympathetic. “No threats. No raised voices. Just facts.”
You leaned back slightly against the thin pillow, the cuffs biting into your wrists, and arched a brow. “Oh, good. I was worried someone might actually raise their voice and scare me.”
Laswell’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a warning.
She pulled over a chair and sat down, crossing one leg over the other, hands folding neatly atop her lap. Her posture was relaxed, her eyes anything but.
“You’re a valuable asset,” she continued. “Your work — ground-breaking. Dangerous. Unstable.”
She tilted her head slightly, watching you like a chess player waiting for a careless move. You knew that she'd caught how your fists clenched by your sides as she referred to you as nothing but an asset for her to use.
“That’s why you’re here. To make sure it doesn’t end up in the wrong hands.”
You made a show of glancing around the barren, fluorescent-lit room. “And what would your hands be, exactly? The ‘good guys’?” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because from where I’m sitting, the hospitality’s not exactly inspiring.”
Laswell didn’t react — didn’t need to. Instead, she opened the file and slid a series of photos across the table next to you. Images you didn’t want to see — projections, simulations of death and destruction unleashed by the chemical you’d spent months creating. You shut your eyes in defeat and looked away.
“You think you’re the only one who can control it,” Laswell said softly. “You’re not wrong. That’s why you’re still breathing.”
You met her gaze, lips curling into a humourless smile, “So basically you’re saying: work for you… or die. Great.”
You sighed, “Really rolling out the red carpet here, guys.”
Laswell’s expression didn’t flicker.
“Not a threat,” she said calmly. “Just reality.”
And somehow, that made it feel a thousand times worse.
"You're not giving me much of a choice," you responded tersely.
"Perfect." She responded with a triumphant smile, "You start work tomorrow."
"Can't wait,"
She began to tuck the gruesome images back into the folder as she rose to her feet, "I'll have someone bring you to your room."
You watched her leave, the door clicking shut behind her, and sank back against the bed as the full weight of the situation finally settled on you. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
You were meant to get rich quick — sell your chemical weapon, cash out, and retire before thirty. You had no loyalty to this organization — or the one before it — but at least back in Switzerland, no one was holding a metaphorical gun to your head.
Surely, there was no way this could be legal.
The door creaked open, and there he was.
Ghost.
No helmet this time — just the black balaclava stretched tight across sharp, merciless features, and those cold, dead eyes you barely recognized anymore.
He didn’t speak. He just stalked toward you, each step deliberate and heavy, like you were an animal that he was dragging back to its cage. You stayed still, refusing to flinch as he approached.
Ghost pulled a small key from his belt and crouched at the side of the bed — close enough that you caught the sharp scent of gun oil and leather clinging to him. Without a word, he slid the key into the cuffs at your wrists. The metal clicked open. You exhaled slowly, rubbing at the raw, chafed skin, watching him with barely restrained contempt.
He straightened to his full imposing height and jerked his head toward the door.
"Move," he ordered, flat and emotionless.
"Funny," you said at last, voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t you used to say please?"
Ghost’s shoulders barely shifted. He started walking without waiting for a response, expecting you to follow like a good little prisoner.
You pushed yourself off the bed gingerly, body aching but pride refusing to show it, and followed him.
The hallway outside was sterile and empty, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.
You kept pace beside him, your shoulder brushing his once or twice, neither of you willing to give ground.
"You know," you said coldly, "when you dragged me out of that lab, I almost thought you cared."
Ghost kept walking.
"Thought wrong," he said simply.
You bit down hard on the urge to snap back, rage simmering just below your skin.
"So what is it then, Simon?" you spat, deliberately using his real name. "Do you always tell your prisoners your name before you stab them in the back?"
That made him stop dead in his tracks.
You almost barrelled directly into him.
He turned just enough for you to feel the full weight of his glare.
"Don't," he said, low and dangerous. "Don't call me that."
You lifted your chin defiantly, not backing down.
He stared at you a second longer, then turned sharply and continued down the hall.
After a few more silent steps, he came to a heavy door, pulled it open roughly, and gestured inside without looking at you.
"Your room."
You moved to step through—
But his hand shot out, grabbing your bicep in a tight, unyielding grip, pulling you to a halt.
You froze, pulse jumping instinctively at the sudden contact.
Ghost leaned in just slightly, voice low enough that no one else would hear, his breath warm against your temple.
"You even think about running," he said, voice cold and deliberate, "and I'll hunt you down myself."
The promise in those words was colder than the steel around your wrists had been.
He released you roughly, shoving you lightly toward the open door.
You stumbled a step before catching yourself, spine snapping straight as you turned to glare at him over your shoulder.
Bastard.
You walked into the room without another word, ignoring the heavy slam of the door behind you.
If he thought this was over —
He was dead wrong.