3. Damaged goods

The interrogation room was quiet, cold, and bare. Cement floor. Stainless steel table. One overhead light. No windows, just a mirror on the far wall—the kind that only reflects one way.

Behind it, Task Force 141 stood in silence.

Ember sat on the other side.

She looked nothing like the girl I remembered. Pale, drawn, features sharpened by too many years underground. Hair now jet-black, cropped short at the nape like a soldier or a prisoner. Her frame was wiry but strong, clad in a standard grey sweat set issued by the holding block. No shoes. No jewelry. No weapons.

But her eyes?

Still the same. Violet and venomous.

"She doesn't look like much," Soap muttered beside me, arms crossed. "Bit of a shadow, innit?"

"That shadow nearly bled three separate safehouses dry before the cartel picked her up," Laswell replied coolly from her corner.

Gaz was inside with her, seated across the table, voice calm but clipped. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, posture just casual enough to put someone off their guard.

"Let's start simple," he said, thick London accent smoothing out the edges. "Name, affiliation, what you were doin' in that compound."

Ember smiled, slow and lazy. "Already know my name."

"Humor me."

"Ember."

"Real name."

She tilted her head. "Real enough."

Gaz exhaled, patient. "Alright then. What was your mission in Las Almas?"

She looked at the mirror. Right at me. I could feel it.

"I was waiting."

"For what?"

"Her."

Soap glanced at me, brow cocked. "That normal?"

I said nothing.

Price's voice was low. "She's bait. She knows it."

Ember leaned back, still smiling. "Did you think they'd really let me go without knowing who would come for me?"

Gaz held the line. "You were caught in a raid."

"No," Ember replied. "I was placed."

That sent a ripple through the room.

Ghost shifted slightly beside me. "She's not talkin'. She's playing."

I kept my arms crossed. My jaw tight.

Gaz leaned forward a hair. "Placed by who?"

"Doesn't matter. They're watching now."

He gave a dry snort. "Let 'em."

She let her head loll to the side. "You're not the one they're studying."

A long silence stretched before Ghost finally broke it. His voice quiet, but heavy.

"Your turn."

I didn't argue. Just stepped out from the observation room and into the cold gray cell.

Ember didn't look up when I entered. Not right away.

I shut the door behind me and took Gaz's seat across from her. For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then she laughed. Just once. A breath of air.

"Nikolina. Of all people."

"You remember the program rules," I said. "No names."

"Rules were for the girls they wanted to keep."

I kept my expression neutral.

"You gonna ask me what I know, or just stare at me like a guilty ghost?"

"Start talking."

She leaned forward, resting her chin in one hand. "Why you? Hm? They had better. Smarter. Stronger. So why send you?"

"Classified."

"No," she said in Russian, voice low and biting. "Zachem imenno tebya otpravili v britanskuyu armyu? Kto-to dolzhen byl poslat' polomannyy tovar?"Why you, specifically? Someone had to send the damaged goods.

My spine stiffened.

"Speak english."

She leaned closer, whispering in Russian again. "Ty byla ikh luchshaya kukla. Teper'—tol'ko pustaâ obolochka."You were their best puppet. Now? Just a hollow shell.

Something inside me cooled. Hardened.

"Why were you in Las Almas?"

No answer.

I stood slowly, moved behind her, and planted my hands on her shoulders. Firm. I could feel the tension coil beneath her skin.

"Last chance."

"Or what? You'll break me?"

I bent to her ear. "I remember what they taught us. And I know the things they didn't teach you."

She flinched.

"Tell me about the shipment."

Silence.

I pressed. "What were the Russians trading with the cartel? Who was the middleman?"

A pause. Then her voice, barely a whisper:

"Satellite data. Shipment manifests. Movements. Target cities."

"Where's the hub?"

"Baku. Old oil line. Buried underground."

"Who's running it?"

Another pause.

"Dragovich. Son of the one from the Cold War."

I straightened, walked back around, and leaned on the table.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

She hissed. "Suka." Bitch.

I smiled.

Back behind the glass, the room was still.

Soap looked like he'd just watched a bear maul someone in a library.

"Jesus Christ, lass. That was brutal."

Gaz was staring at me like he didn't know what to make of it. "You didn't even touch her."

Ghost, still as ever, murmured under his breath. "Didn't need to."

Price gave me a long look. The kind that wasn't judgment. Just understanding.

"We've got what we need," he said. "Get it to Laswell."

He looked back to me. "Good work, darling."

I nodded. Didn't say anything. Just kept my eyes on Ember through the glass.

She was still sitting there. Head down now. Arms folded like she could hold herself together with just bones and breath.

I knew that posture. I'd worn it once.

Maybe still did.

Later, in the armory, I found Ghost loading magazines by himself.

He didn't look up.

"You went dark in there."

"Had to."

"You always like that when it's personal?"

"Only when they underestimate me."

He clicked a mag into place. "She knew how to cut deep. Didn't mean she could hold the knife."

I sat on the bench beside him. Quiet for a long moment.

"Didn't like hearing it. Damaged goods."

He looked over, voice low and blunt.

"Everyone here is. Difference is what you do with the damage."

I met his eyes.

And for the first time, he didn't look through me.

He looked at me.

Only he didn't realize I was, indeed, damaged goods — just in ways too layered to name, and ones that would shape my stay in 141 more than any of them knew.