Simon "Ghost" Riley. || TF141 || Interrogation Training.

"Everyone breaks. The question is — what do you do after?" Interrogation Room: For you, this isn't just another drill — it's a descent into silence and control. Because when Ghost steps into the room, fear doesn't come from pain. It comes from him. The recruit's next phase of training takes a darker turn. Inside the cold, sterile walls of the SAS facility, she faces her toughest test yet — psychological endurance. What looks like an interrogation exercise is really something far deeper: a measure of how she reacts under absolute pressure. From behind the reinforced glass, Price, Laswell, Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro watch as Ghost methodically sets the stage — the dim lights, the single chair, the hum of the camera feed. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't threaten. He waits. Minutes stretch into hours. Every silence feels heavier than words. Ghost studies every twitch, every shift in breathing, dismantling defenses piece by piece — not out of cruelty, but precision. He knows how far to go before the mind fractures.

Simon "Ghost" Riley. || TF141 || Interrogation Training.

"Everyone breaks. The question is — what do you do after?" Interrogation Room: For you, this isn't just another drill — it's a descent into silence and control. Because when Ghost steps into the room, fear doesn't come from pain. It comes from him. The recruit's next phase of training takes a darker turn. Inside the cold, sterile walls of the SAS facility, she faces her toughest test yet — psychological endurance. What looks like an interrogation exercise is really something far deeper: a measure of how she reacts under absolute pressure. From behind the reinforced glass, Price, Laswell, Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro watch as Ghost methodically sets the stage — the dim lights, the single chair, the hum of the camera feed. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't threaten. He waits. Minutes stretch into hours. Every silence feels heavier than words. Ghost studies every twitch, every shift in breathing, dismantling defenses piece by piece — not out of cruelty, but precision. He knows how far to go before the mind fractures.

*Interrogation Training.

For you, the question isn't whether you can stand the pressure. It's whether you can answer while it's bearing down on you.

The observation room was quiet in that sharp, glassy way that made sound itself nervous. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, painting pale reflections across the two-way mirror. On the other side, six figures stood close enough to share breath and tension — Price, Laswell, Soap, Gaz, Alejandro, and one analyst in the back with a tablet glowing faint green.

Price's arms were folded, expression unreadable. Laswell's tone was crisp: "Vitals are online. Track heart rate, blink frequency, body posture." Soap let out a low whistle. "She's a brave one, sittin' across from Ghost in there. Rather jump out a plane, meself." Alejandro didn't respond. He just watched — unblinking.

Through the glass, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley sat in the center of the interrogation room. No movement. No wasted energy. Just a black thermos, cheap metal cup, and single manila file lay neatly on table before him.

He reached for thermos, poured black coffee into cup, but didn't drink it. Ritual. Not comfort. Then, one gloved hand adjusted lamp's angle until circle of light fell directly across empty chair opposite him.

The door opened.

Bootsteps entered — measured, uncertain. Gaz led you in, giving brief nod before stepping back out. The click of closing door seemed louder than it should've been.

Ghost didn't move, not even to acknowledge you. He let silence breathe, heavy and exact. Only sound was soft hum of light and your own quiet exhale.

"Sit," Ghost said.

The chair scraped floor as you obeyed. He didn't speak right away. He watched. Catalogued. A tremor in your hand. Controlled breathing. Shoulders squared, but not relaxed.

He clicked pen once — small, deliberate sound — and began. "You understand why you're here?"

Your silence hung between you. Good. That was part of the test.

"You'll face people one day who won't wait for you to think," he continued, voice low but clear. "They'll want what's in your head. You'll either control that — or they will."

He pushed file toward you with single gloved finger. Paper slid beneath lamp, stopping inches from your hand. Photo stared up from inside — middle-aged man, rough beard, sharp eyes.

"Names," Ghost said. "Last known contact. Safe houses. What did you see?"

He didn't fill silence after. He let it grow until it became a weight. Your gaze flicked once to photo, then away. Smallest motion — but enough.

Behind glass, Laswell murmured, "First tell. Eye movement, subtle avoidance." Price nodded once. "Let him work."

Ghost leaned forward slightly, elbows on table. "They'll test you like this, too," he said. "You won't have luxury of silence then. You'll have pain. Fear. Maybe worse."

Another pause. Another silence stretching thin.

He reached under table, produced worn leather watch, placed beside file. Item wasn't random — tied to story built for simulation. Your eyes tracked it instinctively.

"There," Ghost said quietly. "That look. What's the name?"

Still no answer. But micro-twitch in jaw told him enough — not a name, but recognition.

He clicked pen again. A rhythm. "Bravery's fine," he murmured, "but bravery without control gets you killed."

Shift of lamp's head made light flicker once across your face. Movement was subtle — jarring only because everything else in room stayed still.

Your breathing changed — quicker now. Ghost didn't move closer, not yet. He simply existed there, immovable shape, letting your awareness of him do the work.

"Silence," he said finally, "is a weapon — but only if you're the one using it."

He leaned forward a fraction, enough that skull mask caught light again, all hollow eyes and bone-white pattern. "Speak. Help me help you."

He left it there — no threat, no raised voice. Just that single command, balanced between warning and mercy.