After causing absolute chaos in Las Vegas during the casino heist, Hunter had casually considered returning for a vacation someday. He never expected to be back so soon. He certainly never expected to return in such a miserable state.
And he was genuinely miserable.
Hunter was locked inside a pitch-black shipping container. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound. Thick ropes strapped his torso to a heavy steel chair welded directly to the container's floor.
His eyes were covered by a thick blindfold, and a heavy gag filled his mouth.
Given his superhuman attributes, he could have snapped the ropes and broken free at any moment. But he had to admit that he hadn't looked this pathetic in a very long time.
Playing the victim was an absolute necessity.
The ICA had previously sent three elite operatives into this legendary black-site prison. All three had vanished without a trace almost a month ago. To avoid raising the suspicions of the syndicate running the facility, Diana and her superiors had gone to extreme lengths to ensure Hunter's infiltration looked flawless.
They had spent two weeks strictly training him at their secret bunker. They spent another two weeks fabricating an airtight cover identity before quietly moving him to Las Vegas.
This meticulous preparation led directly to his current predicament.
His new identity was a master-class gambler. According to the fabricated dossier, Hunter had utilized god-like gambling skills to swindle tens of millions of dollars from a ruthless Las Vegas casino magnate. The magnate had lost massive amounts of face in front of his VIP clients.
Driven by pure spite, the casino boss hunted Hunter down. After days of brutal physical torture failed to satisfy his rage, the boss paid an astronomical fee to transfer Hunter to the world's most inescapable prison. The explicit instructions were to keep him alive and torture him daily for the rest of his life.
To sell the illusion, Hunter was currently covered in horrifying injuries.
They were purely cosmetic. The ICA possessed advanced pharmacological black-tech that simulated deep, purple bruising across his skin. Combined with his Level 5 Acting skill, which was less than twenty thousand experience points away from hitting Level Max, Hunter was entirely confident in his disguise.
The only real problem was the transport phase. He was going to have to starve for a few days without a single drop of water.
With his sight and speech restricted, Hunter's hearing naturally sharpened. He estimated roughly twenty hours had passed since the ICA finalized his makeup and locked him in the container.
The container doors had only opened once. Three men had approached his chair. They scanned his body multiple times with some sort of electronic device before injecting a heavy sedative into his neck. The doors were slammed shut immediately after.
Hunter remained perfectly still. He noticed the air flowing through the container's ventilation holes was constantly shifting. The ambient temperature and surrounding odors fluctuated wildly.
He guessed he was being transported via cargo plane.
He didn't know what kind of heavy sedative they had pumped into his veins. It made him feel slightly dizzy and lethargic for a few hours. However, his baseline physical stats were currently over six times that of a normal human. He never actually lost consciousness. He just played dead.
The following days were a grueling test of endurance. Extreme hunger and agonizing thirst began to set in.
Hunter remained hyper-vigilant, refusing to sleep. With his current physical condition, staying awake for five straight days barely affected his combat readiness. Fasting was equally manageable.
But basic physiological functions were another matter entirely. To make the act completely authentic, Hunter gritted his teeth and simply soiled himself in the chair.
Time lost all meaning in the bumpy, foul-smelling darkness. He completely lost track of how long he had been locked away.
Even with his monstrous durability, the prolonged dehydration was starting to take a toll. He had stopped counting after the third day.
He had briefly considered snapping his bonds, pulling some water and food from his System Inventory, and tying himself back up. He quickly abandoned the idea. His sharpened senses picked up the faint hum of electronics. He was certain the men who injected him had planted hidden surveillance cameras inside the container.
The salty, damp air blowing through the vents confirmed he had been transferred to a cargo ship. He had heard the deep blare of a ship's horn multiple times.
Knowing he was closing in on his destination, Hunter endured the torment.
Finally, the heavy latch of the shipping container echoed through the darkness. The metal doors groaned open.
Hunter heard several pairs of heavy boots approaching.
"He is not dead," a voice said in fluent Spanish. The man had just pressed two fingers against Hunter's nose to check for breath.
Hunter silently memorized the voice.
Metal clinked as heavy steel handcuffs were slapped over his wrists, replacing the ropes. Another man crouched down and secured thick iron shackles around his ankles. Once he was completely chained, they finally cut the ropes binding him to the chair.
Someone shoved a suffocating black canvas hood over his head. Two guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him roughly out of the container.
Fresh ocean air rushed into his lungs. He could hear the crashing of waves. The floor beneath his feet swayed gently.
He knew he was on a ship, but the journey wasn't over. The guards were incredibly cautious.
Hunter had gone without water for at least five or six days. He was physically drained, but he could still utilize at least seventy percent of his peak combat power if necessary.
He continued to play the part of a broken, half-dead prisoner. He let his legs drag, forcing the two guards to carry his weight.
They hauled him toward a deafening roar. The rhythmic chopping of helicopter blades filled the air. He was tossed unceremoniously into the back of a chopper.
The flight lasted barely fifteen minutes.
The helicopter descended through the salty sea breeze and touched down. The guards dragged him out again. When his feet hit the ground, Hunter purposefully stomped his heel.
The solid, echoing clang of thick steel confirmed his suspicions. He was standing on the deck of yet another massive vessel.
Just as he wondered how many more transfers he had to endure, heavy military boots approached his position. A cold, authoritative voice cut through the noise of the wind.
"Prisoner 7463. Has this intake been fully processed?"
"Sir, yes, sir," a guard replied. "Full inspection complete. No anomalies during transport. The biometric data matches the client's file."
They were speaking English.
"If he is clear, take him to the washroom," the cold voice ordered. "Hose the filth off him, and then throw him in his cell."
"Yes, sir."
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