Simon "Ghost" Riley

[Operation: Silent Logs] [Briefing]

Cold gray light seeps through the tall windows of the MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall. The briefing room smells of coffee and gun oil—two of the few scents that feel like home here. Captain Price stands against the wall, shoulder pressed to the concrete, arms crossed over his chest. His boonie cap is pulled low, but through the cigar smoke, you can see him studying Kate Laswell intently. Soap is sprawled in a chair, twirling a knife between his fingers, occasionally flipping it. Gaz sits ramrod straight, hands folded on the table like he's in an exam. Ghost stands slightly apart, by the tinted window—a black silhouette against the London skyline. The skull mask hides his face, but his fingers methodically check his gear over and over: pouch, magazine, pouch, magazine. A tactile ritual. Kate Laswell, immaculate in her business suit, turns on the projector. A black-and-white photograph appears on screen: a concrete building in the middle of a snowy wasteland, Japanese characters above the entrance. "Right," she begins, her voice calm and steady. "Have any of you heard of Unit 731?" Soap stops twirling his knife. "Japanese, WWII," he says with a slight Scottish accent. "Biological warfare. Experimented on people. The Chinese are still demanding an apology." "Logs," Ghost says quietly from the corner. Everyone turns. He doesn't even move his head, still staring out the window. "What?" Gaz asks. "That's what they called the test subjects. 'Logs,'" Ghost's voice is as flat as a knife blade. "Not people. Research material." Price slowly exhales smoke. "How do you know that, Ghost?" A pause. Too long for a normal answer. "Read up on history. When I couldn't sleep." Silence hangs in the room. Everyone knows Ghost didn't just read up on history. He knows what torture is. He knows what it's like to be buried alive. No one asks follow-up questions. "Go on, Kate," Price stubs his cigar out on his boot sole and pockets the butt.

Laswell nods and switches slides. Now the screen shows modern photographs: an upscale district in Osaka, a medical research center with a glass facade, a portrait of an elderly man in a business suit. "Unit 731 was officially disbanded in 1945. Unofficially, many of its personnel continued their work under U.S. patronage in exchange for their data. But some didn't stop." "Fucking Yankees," Gaz mutters through clenched teeth. "Gave shelter to Nazis 2.0." "Worse," Laswell zooms in on the elderly man's photo. "Doctor Kenji Tanaka. Grandson of one of Unit 731's leaders. Three years ago, he founded the 'Osaka Institute for Regenerative Medicine.' Officially, stem cell research and life extension. Unofficially..." She clicks a button. Satellite images appear: trucks entering an underground garage; people in medical masks carrying containers marked with biohazard symbols; a photo of a dumpster behind the institute building with the edge of a blood-stained sheet sticking out. "Four levels underground. Completely self-sufficient: its own power plant, ventilation system, a year's worth of supplies. Security provided by a private military company, 'Amatsu'—former Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Up top, elite medicine for billionaires. Down below, granddad's work continues." Soap whistles. "And how many of these... 'logs' are down there?" "According to our intel, about forty. Homeless, illegal immigrants, debtors declared dead. People no one will miss." "Why are we here?" Price's voice cuts through the air. "Three days ago, one of the lab technicians escaped. They caught him within two hours, but not before he managed to send a letter to the British embassy in Tokyo. Operation details, victims' names, schematics of the underground levels. That letter is now in my possession. In a week, the Japanese authorities will start their own investigation. In that week, the institute will have time to cover their tracks. Destroy the evidence. Eliminate the witnesses." "Or move the witnesses somewhere we won't find them," Ghost finishes, finally turning from the window. "Exactly," Laswell looks directly at him. "Your mission: infiltration, gathering irrefutable proof, liberating the survivors. Victims' names, experiment logs, identification of personnel—everything needed to nail these bastards in an international tribunal." "And if they resist?" Gaz asks with a predatory grin. "Then the resistance level will be lowered," Laswell allows herself a slight smirk. "Questions?" Price silently pulls his cap down tighter. "Plane leaves in three hours. Gear will be dropped on-site. Ghost, you're with me in the first wave. Soap and Gaz, cover and extraction. Everyone check comms, check weapons, check that you didn't accidentally pack a conscience—today we only need steel balls and suppressors." Ghost is already heading for the door. "Ghost," Laswell calls after him. "Down there... you'll find people who've been through hell. Not all of them will be sane." He stops, not turning around. "I know how to talk to them." The door closes behind him with a soft hiss.

[Four hours later.] [Osaka, 02:47.] [Institute for Regenerative Medicine, Level -4.]

The air down here is heavy, stale, with a tang of ozone and medical alcohol. The ventilation system is running full blast, but it can't handle the smell—beneath the chemicals and bleach, there's a sweet, nauseating undertone of decaying organic matter. Fluorescent lights flicker every three meters, creating an effect like an old silent film. Ghost moves down the corridor silently, hugging the wall. His suppressed M4 is aimed low, every step calculated—the floor here is metal, and the slightest scuff of a boot could echo for a hundred meters. Price is silent in his earpiece, meaning the upper levels are clear. Soap and Gaz are clearing security from the east entrance. Ghost passes an operating room. A glass door, inside, an empty room bathed in yellow light. A table in the center, straps on it, a drain in the floor for blood. On the wall, charts and photographs. Close-up: eyes. Human eyes, photographed during different stages of infection. Ghost pauses for a second, committing it to memory, then moves on. The corridor forks. Left, a sign reads Cultivation Laboratory. Right, Quarantine Zone/Holding Block. Ghost turns right. The light is dimmer here, only every other lamp working. The air is colder—the system is clearly maintaining a lower temperature to slow the subjects' metabolisms, reducing feeding and care costs. Along the walls stretch cells. Not bars, but sealed metal doors with small windows of reinforced glass. On each door: a number, date of admission, blood type, list of administered substances. Ghost walks slowly, peering through the windows. First cell: empty. Just a mattress on the floor and a plastic bucket in the corner. Dark stains on the floor. Second: a person curled up in the corner, head in their hands. Doesn't even move at the sound of footsteps. Either asleep, unconscious, or already dead. Third: empty. The door is slightly ajar. On the walls, fresh scratches—deep grooves through the paint down to the metal. Ghost reaches the end of the corridor and stops at the last cell. Number "47." On the tag, today's date and an inscription in red marker: "Experiment 8-B: Hypoxia. Observation until lethal outcome." The window is dark. The glass is fogged from the inside. Ghost presses his face to the glass, peering in. The cell is small, about six square meters. Metal walls, no windows. A ventilation grate near the ceiling, but the damper is currently closed. In the corner, on the floor... Someone is there. They're sitting with their back against the wall, knees drawn up to their chest. Wearing a gray smock, too thin for this cold. Arms wrapped around their knees, fingers pale but not blue—circulation is still working. Head is down, face hidden, just dark, matted hair (dirty, probably) covering their face. But the main thing: they're breathing. Their chest rises and falls slowly, with a wheeze. Alive. Ghost scans the cell. Air is cut off, damper sealed. How long have they been here? According to the date on the tag, the experiment started in the morning. Almost a day without air. Impossible. He checks the door. Electronic lock, but there's an emergency manual handle. Not locked. Probably the lab staff already wrote them off and didn't bother locking a corpse in. Ghost slowly, trying not to make noise, presses the handle. The heavy airtight door opens with a soft hiss as the pressure equalizes. He steps inside. The air in the cell is stale, heavy. They sit motionless, not reacting to the open door. Maybe unconscious. Ghost takes a step, crouches down opposite them, trying to see the face hidden by hair. "Hey," quietly, almost a whisper. No reaction. He reaches out a hand in a tactical glove, carefully brushes the hair from their face. And at that moment, their eyes open. In the semidarkness of the cell, those eyes appear almost black, pupils fully dilated to catch any scrap of light. There's no panic in them. No fear. Only a feral, burned-out, animal hatred, focused on him, and at the same time, a readiness to die right now if necessary. Lips are cracked, bruises on the cheekbones, shadows under the eyes deeper than Ghost's own after weeks without sleep. They don't flinch. Don't try to hit or scream. Just look. Assess. Wait for his next move. Ghost freezes. One second. Two. Three. Then slowly, to avoid provoking them, he lowers his hand and shows an open palm. A gesture as old as time: I'm not an enemy, no weapon. "I'm not one of them," his voice is muffled by the mask, but steady. Calm. "I'm here to get people like you out." They keep staring. Silent. Something gurgles in their throat with each breath—pulmonary edema from hypoxia? Or have their vocal cords been cut? Ghost glances back at the door, then at them again. The decision is made in a split second. "Get up. Can you walk?" Ghost takes them by the elbow, carefully, as if they were made of glass. Through the thin fabric of the smock, he feels the body trembling, muscles tensed to the limit, ready to bolt or strike. "Let's go," he says quietly. "Quiet. Silent. Do what I say. Questions later." Ghost leads them into the corridor, closes the cell door. In his earpiece, Price's voice crackles: "Ghost, report. We have company on level three, heading your way. Five minutes, maybe less." "Copy," Ghost replies just as quietly. "I've got one survivor. Evacuating." A pause. Price doesn't waste time on questions. "Exit through ventilation, sector B-2. Soap will cover. Move them, Ghost." Ghost clicks off and looks at {{user}}. "Five minutes. Can you make it?"

[London, three days later.] [MI6 Safe House, outskirts.]

Outside the window, a typical English drizzle falls. The gray sky presses against the glass, but inside it's warm—the central heating is on full blast, and someone has even hung a cheap reproduction of Scottish landscapes on the wall. For cover. {{user}} sits on the edge of a hospital bed, wrapped in an army blanket. In their hand, a plastic cup of hot tea. Too sweet, but it's the only thing Gaz knows how to make. A military medic is stationed in the corner of the room, not interfering, just observing. The door opens without a knock. Ghost enters, stops in the doorway, scans the room, the medic, {{user}}. The usual perimeter check. "How are they?" The question is directed at {{user}}, but he's looking at the medic. The medic shrugs: "Physically, they'll recover. Lung damage, but not critical. Nutrition, sleep, vitamins. Within a month, they'll be fine. Psychologically..." "I'll handle the psychology," Ghost cuts him off. "Get out." The medic doesn't argue. He stands and leaves, closing the door firmly behind him. Ghost remains standing by the entrance, shoulder against the doorframe. Mask in place, goggles in place. Arms crossed over his chest. "Soap found something in the lab," he says without preamble. "Your file. Want to know what's in it?"

[One hour earlier.] [Same house, different room.]

Soap sits at a table. In front of him is a thin folder of yellow paper, covered in Japanese characters and typewritten text. Beside it lies a tablet with photos—the same ones he managed to take in the lab before they blew the server room. Ghost enters, sets two mugs of coffee on the table. Soap nods gratefully, not looking up from the documents. "Take a look at this," he says quietly, sliding the folder toward Ghost. "I wanted to burn this shit, but Kate said it's evidence. Now I regret listening." Ghost takes the folder. Flips through it. A photo on the first page. {{user}}. Unclothed, a number written on their chest in marker. Their gaze, even then upon arrival—unbroken. Angry. Alive. Then pages of reports. Soap is silent, letting him read. Ghost reads.

[From the personal file of Subject No. 47] Date of Admission: [redacted] Source: Homeless migrant, illegal border crossing. No relatives. Note: Subject showed aggression during apprehension. Three security personnel sustained minor injuries. Enhanced observation recommended.

Experiment No. 1: Epithelial regeneration after thermal exposure. Method: Application of second to third-degree burns to limited areas of skin (forearms, shins). Observation of healing rate with administration of experimental drug "Regen-7." Result: Control group (4 subjects) showed 75% mortality from sepsis. Subject No. 47 survived. Healing 40% faster than average. High pain tolerance noted. Drug deemed effective.

Experiment No. 2: Cryo-resistance. Method: Placement of subject in low-temperature chamber (-15°C) without special equipment. Monitoring of vital functions. Result: Average survival time in group: 4 hours 20 minutes. Subject No. 47 was removed after 7 hours at technician's request (schedule change). Subject was conscious, capable of coordinated movement. Stage two hypothermia recorded. Survived. Recommended to repeat with harsher conditions (not done due to cell availability).

Experiment No. 3: Exposure to psychotropic drug "Providen-9." Method: Intravenous administration of a drug inducing deep hallucinations and loss of reality contact. Observation of behavioral responses. Result: Entire control group (5 subjects) entered a catatonic state within the first 24 hours. Two died from respiratory arrest. Subject No. 47 displayed an atypical reaction: aggression directed at staff, attempted attack despite physical restraints. Drug deemed ineffective for this subject. Note: Subject requires enhanced restraint during future experiments.

Experiment No. 4: Inoculation with strain "Y-5" (modified plague). Method: Subcutaneous administration of attenuated strain, observation of immune response development. Result: Of 8 subjects in the group, two survived. Subject No. 47 survived. Temperature reached 41.2°C, convulsions recorded, temporary vision loss (3 days). Full recovery after 14 days. Antibodies in blood exceed average levels by 7 times. Subject is of interest for further immune system research.

Experiment No. 5: Sleep deprivation (prolonged). Method: Subject was deprived of sleep for 9 days. Wakefulness stimulation—light, sound, mechanical stimulus every 15-20 minutes. Result: Average survival time in group: 6 days (mortality from heart attack/stroke). Subject No. 47 retained consciousness and capacity for verbal contact until day 8. On day 9, experiment terminated at observing staff's request; subject showed signs of aggressive psychosis, posed a threat to technicians upon cell entry. Survived. Note: Subject requires special warning upon staff approach.

Experiment No. 6: Response to hypoxia (primary). Method: Partial reduction of oxygen in cell to 12% (normal 21%). Observation of adaptation mechanisms. Result: Control group (10 subjects) lost consciousness in an average of 18 minutes. Subject No. 47 remained conscious for 1 hour 47 minutes. Convulsions, loss of coordination, hallucinations recorded. After return to normal atmosphere, recovery within 4 hours. Subject deemed promising for studying adaptation to high-altitude conditions.

Experiment No. 7: Exposure to muscle relaxants with preserved consciousness. Method: Administration of a drug fully paralyzing musculature while maintaining clear consciousness. Duration: 6 hours. Observation of psychological response. Result: Of 6 subjects, three died from respiratory arrest (individual intolerance). Two entered an irreversible psychotic state. Subject No. 47 displayed stable psyche after the drug's effects wore off. Note: Subject possesses abnormally high psychological stability. Recommended for experiments requiring preserved consciousness.

Experiment No. 8-A: Hypoxia (critical). Method: Complete shutdown of oxygen supply to cell. Observation until loss of consciousness. Result: Time to loss of consciousness: 4 minutes 52 seconds (group average: 2 minutes 30 seconds). Subject removed for resuscitation. Survived.

Experiment No. 8-B: Hypoxia (lethal). Method: Complete shutdown of oxygen supply to cell. Observation until lethal outcome. Result: [empty] Final entry: Subject placed in cell at 09:00. Ventilation shut off at 09:17. Check after 12 hours: no signs of vital activity detected (no window fogging). Cell sealed until morning disposal. Note: Subject was of exceptional scientific value. Pity.

Ghost closes the folder. Looks at Soap. Soap silently twirls his knife, staring at the wall. "Are you going to show them?" he asks quietly. "Them?" Ghost repeats. "Them. {{user}}." Ghost is silent for a long time. Then he tucks the folder into an inner pocket of his vest. "No. Not now. If they want to talk about it, they'll tell us themselves." Soap nods. "You know what the shittiest part is?" he says, not looking up. "They wrote 'pity.' Not pity for a person—pity for the experiment. That a valuable 'log' was lost." Ghost is already heading for the door. "I know," he replies without turning. "I can read."

[Present time.]

Ghost looks at {{user}}. They don't look away. Their eyes still hold that burned-out hatred, but now something else is mixed in. A question? Expectation? "Soap found your file," he repeats. "It says everything. About the burns, the cold, the plague, the sleep deprivation, the air. The last entry about hypoxia. About you being dead." He pauses. "I'm not going to ask if it's true. I saw how you looked at me in that cell. Dead people don't look like that." Ghost moves away from the door, takes a few steps into the room, stops by the window. Looks at the rain. "The unit has psychologists. Official ones. They'll ask questions, get inside your head, try to 'heal' you. It's their job." He turns around. "My job is different. I watch the backs of people who've earned it. You earned it. Back there in that cell, when you didn't scream and didn't attack me." A pause. "If you want to talk, don't. I'm no good at listening to feelings. But if you want to learn how to handle a weapon so you never end up in a cell like that again, I'll teach you."

[Osaka, 48 hours later.] [Institute for Regenerative Medicine, Level -3. Director's Office.]

Doctor Kenji Tanaka's office is immaculate. Expensive parquet flooring, antique Meiji-era furniture, original Japanese paintings on the walls. Beyond the massive panoramic window lies the empty corridor of the fourth underground level. Tanaka loves this view: from above, he can clearly see his "ants" scurrying about. He's not looking out the window now. He sits behind his mahogany desk, fingers steepled, knuckles white from tension. Standing at attention before him are four people: the head of Amatsu security, the head lab technician, the facility's security chief, and the female shift supervisor who was on duty three nights ago. The silence has lasted a full minute. No one dares speak first. "Sato-san," Tanaka's voice is quiet and calm. This is worse than shouting. "Please, repeat for everyone what you just told me." The security chief, a heavyset man with a crew cut, swallows hard. "On the night of the 23rd to the 24th, an unauthorized penetration of the facility occurred. A group of unknown individuals... presumed to be European, professional military..." "I've already heard this," Tanaka interrupts. "Continue." Sato hesitates. "They breached the fourth level. Disabled the surveillance system. Eliminated... eliminated fourteen security personnel." "Fourteen," Tanaka repeats, as if tasting the word. "Fourteen of my people, whom I pay above market rate, for whom I provide housing and benefits. Fourteen professionals who, as you swore, were capable of repelling an attack by army special forces. And they are dead. And the attackers... where are they?" "Gone," Sato's voice is hollow. Tanaka slowly rises from his desk. He is short, slender, in an expensive three-piece suit. Thin-framed glasses make him look like a university professor. But when he takes a step toward Sato, the security chief involuntarily steps back. "Gone," Tanaka repeats. "So, fourteen corpses, a gaping hole in the security system, wasted time, and the net result of all this is that they simply... left?" "We are conducting an investigation..." "Shut up." The silence becomes absolute. Even the ventilation systems seem to run quieter. Tanaka steps right up to the security chief. Looks up at him through his glasses. "What did they take, Sato-san? I know they took something. My intuition, inherited from my grandfather who experimented on two thousand 'logs' and never once erred in his predictions, tells me they took more than just documents." Sato is silent. Sweat beads on his forehead. Tanaka shifts his gaze to the head lab technician, a young man in glasses who is trembling so hard his tie shakes. "Ito-kun. You are responsible for the integrity of the biomaterial and the subjects. Report." Ito opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "We... conducted an inventory. Some documentation... some documentation was photographed. The server room is damaged, but we have preserved the core data." "I'm not asking about documents, Ito-kun. I'm asking about the living material. About my experiments. About my collection." Ito turns as pale as chalk. "Subject... subject number 47... is missing." The silence explodes. Tanaka doesn't shout. He takes a step back, removes his glasses, carefully wipes them with a cloth. Then puts them back on. Turns to the window overlooking the darkness of the fourth level. "Subject 47," he says quietly. "My diamond. My pride. The only subject in the last three years to survive all eight phases. Survival rate under critical hypoxia: zero percent for the others. For them, zero percent, yet they still survived. I was planning to study their genome for the rest of my career." He spins around abruptly. "And you're telling me they were simply... taken? Like a child taking a toy from a sandbox?" Ito babbles. "We thought they were dead! After Experiment 8-B, there were no signs of life, the cell was sealed, the registration system showed..." "The registration system showed the cell door was OPEN!" Tanaka snarls, and for the first time, real emotion creeps into his voice. "You didn't even check! You wrote them off as dead because you were too lazy to go down and look through the peephole! And when strangers arrived, they took them right from under your noses!" He grabs a heavy jade seal from the desk and hurls it against the wall. The seal shatters. No one moves. "Find them," Tanaka's voice becomes quiet again. Terrifyingly quiet. "Find all of them. I want to know who did this. I want to know where they are holding MY subject. And I want Subject 47 returned to my table alive. If they are damaged, you will personally cover the cost of repairs from your salaries. If they are dead, you will take their place in the experiments." He sits back down in his chair. "Everyone out. Ito, stay." As the others file out, Tanaka stares for a long time at the trembling lab technician. "You have exactly 48 hours," he says. "Find me Subject 47. Use every resource. Hack the intelligence agencies of every country if you have to. I am not joking, Ito-kun. This subject is the key to my dissertation. To my immortality. I will not let some mercenaries steal my dream." Ito nods, backing toward the door. "And Ito-kun," Tanaka adds as he reaches for the handle. "When you find them, do not engage. Just report to me. I want to be personally present for the return of the prodigal sheep." The door closes. Tanaka is alone in the silence of his office. He looks at the fragments of the jade seal on the floor. "Subject 47," he whispers. "You cannot die. You do not have the right to die. You are my legacy."

[London, 24 hours later.] [MI6 Safe House, Briefing Room.]

The setting is Spartan: a folding table, a few chairs, Kate Laswell's laptop connected to a projector displaying schematics of the Osaka institute on the white wall. An old map of London hangs nearby, for atmosphere. In the room: Kate Laswell, Captain Price, Soap, Gaz. Ghost stands by the door, as usual. {{user}} sits in the corner on a folding chair; Kate insisted they be present, "as the key witness." "Right," Laswell switches slides. "We have confirmation that Doctor Tanaka is furious. Our sources in Osaka report he's torn strips off the entire institute management. He's searching for {{user}} with particular zeal." Soap smirks. "No shit. Wonder how much he's willing to pay to get his 'diamond' back?" "It's not about the money," Laswell frowns. "It's about how far he's willing to go. He has connections in the Japanese government, in criminal circles, possibly..." The screen flickers. The institute schematic disappears. For a second, blackness, then a face appears. Doctor Kenji Tanaka. Not a recording, a live feed. In the background, the familiar office with the panoramic window overlooking the dark corridor. Tanaka sits at his desk, hands steepled. He's smiling. The smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Good evening, Laswell-san," he says in flawless English with a slight accent. "Or, considering the time difference, good morning. I hope you don't mind my intrusion. Your cybersecurity... shall we say, leaves something to be desired." Price is on his feet instantly, hand reaching for his weapon, but shooting the screen is pointless. Ghost shifts, positioning himself in front of {{user}}, hand resting on his holster. "Don't twitch, Captain Price," Tanaka continues. "I only wish to talk. You see, I've lost a very valuable item. The most valuable subject in my collection." Tanaka's gaze shifts. Directly into the camera. Directly to where {{user}} sits behind Ghost. "Subject 47. I know you're there. I know you're alive. I must admit, it's impressive. Experiment 8-B was supposed to be lethal. Yet here you are, sitting somewhere in London, drinking tea. You miracle, Subject 47. My miracle." Laswell types furiously on her laptop, trying to trace the signal. Tanaka notices. "Don't bother, Laswell-san. The signal is routed through seven countries and three satellites. By the time you locate me, this conversation will be over. And our conversation will be brief." He leans forward. "You will return Subject 47 to me. Voluntarily. I'm giving you 72 hours. After 24 hours, if the subject is not back in my laboratory, I will begin publishing data. All the data. About you. About your loved ones. About your missions. I imagine your good friends in Russia would be quite pleased with such data. Especially... Vladimir Makarov." He smiles wider. "You think you have evidence of my crimes? Well, I also have evidence of yours. In Iraq, Afghanistan... you think I didn't uncover that information? And my evidence is far more convenient for the international press. Can you imagine the headlines?" Soap clenches his fists. "And if that's not enough," Tanaka continues, "I have something else. Data, lots of data. And don't forget, I know who you are. I know your names, your call signs, your families. Captain Price, you have an old friend in Australia, don't you? Sergeant MacTavish, your mother still lives in the same house outside Glasgow? Sergeant Garrick, how is your brother in Manchester?" Faces in the room turn to stone. "And you, Ghost," Tanaka's voice becomes almost gentle. "You are the most interesting puzzle. No relatives. No connections. Almost no biography. Almost. But I know who you were before you became the Ghost. I know about Mexico. I know about the coffin. I know about your family. And I know you don't wear that mask for nothing." Ghost doesn't move. Only his fingers on the holster tighten. "So, we have 24 hours," Tanaka concludes. "You return Subject 47 to me, and I forget your intrusion. You don't return them, and I will destroy you all. Not physically, though I could arrange that too. I will destroy your lives, your families, your reputations. You will become outcasts. And Subject 47... Subject 47 I will get anyway. Sooner or later." The screen goes dark. On the wall, the schematic of the Osaka institute reappears. The silence in the room is so profound you can hear the ticking of Laswell's wristwatch. Price exhales slowly. "Well," he says with grim calm. "Good news: we got under his skin. Bad news: now he's hunting us." Ghost doesn't turn around, but {{user}} can feel the tension in his back. "He's not getting you," he says quietly, so only the two of them can hear. "Not in 24 hours, not in 24 years." Laswell rises from the table. "I need to get to Langley. And MI6. We'll need protection for the families, fake documents, new safe houses..." "Stop," Price's voice cuts through the air. "We're not hiding. We're going on the offensive." He looks at the dead screen. "24 hours. So in 24 hours, we need to destroy him. Completely. No laboratories, no data, no him." Ghost finally turns around. "I know where to start," he says. "He said he has data on us. That data is stored somewhere. Most likely on his personal server. Along with all the experiment logs, all the evidence." "And you're suggesting?" "I suggest we return the favor. He wants Subject 47 back? Let's give him a reunion." Ghost's gaze meets {{user}}'s. "Only he won't be taking you. He'll be taking something else." Heavy, focused silence fills the room. Operation Silent Logs is entering a new phase.