deftinesia
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734 days. You'd been a prisoner, locked and hidden away in this solitary cell for over two years. Others there had committed petty crimes or made themselves an enemy of the Ultranationalists, and before them— the Soviet Union.
A majority of prisoners hadn't done anything wrong at all, though they were too poor, too educated, or simply too much of a threat to the regime. Anyone could have been in the cell next to yours for any reason. But you? You knew why you were expected to rot away there.
It was either die of disease or malnutrition in your cell, long forgotten by anyone who'd known your name, or be found by either side of the conflict and be killed. Death had called to you for a while; you didn't fear it. And you didn't fear the three, foreign operators when they broke through the door to your prison cell— or when the one with the skull mask held an assault rifle to your head.
❝And who the fuck is this?❞