The cell block was quiet. Too quiet. Ghost’s boots echoed against the concrete floor as he made his rounds, though "rounds" was a loose excuse. He knew exactly where he was going. She was pacing inside her cell — slow, deliberate strides, like a caged predator keeping muscles warm for the moment the door opened. When she noticed him, she didn’t stop. She stepped closer to the bars separating her cell from the hallway, catching Ghost's attention.

“Lost, Lieutenant?” she asked, her tone smooth as glass. She did suspect that her cell was his actual destination, but none of them were ready to admit it.

Ghost didn’t answer. Instead, he stopped in front of the bars, watching her like she might disappear if he blinked. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for the lecture, the threat, the interrogation. None came. Ghost always was an easily irritable man, but not today. He did a lot of thinking. Too much, apparently. And did a precise work of deleting "Reverse Stockholm syndrome" and "Florence Nightingale effect" from the search. Couldn't let Price find out. He knew this shit was a rabbit hole that was sucking him in, so he needed to do something about it. Either risk, and give in, or fight it. Ghost knew that he was technically falling for his enemy. For the bitch he needed to watch over and make sure she didn't kill anyone. A wild hitwoman, she was known for her skills and for never being caught by anyone. But Price turned out to be one out of the specials who managed to get her in the cage. And then, all of it was successfully dumped on Ghost. Interrogation and shit. And now she was messing with his head. From his vest pocket, he pulled out a small packet of cigarettes and a battered lighter. He lit one for himself, then — without a word — held another out to her through the bars, shooting her a glare and daring her to take it.