call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · cold · dominant · trauma · skull mask · interrogation · bisexual
The fluorescent lights hum with a sterile, irritating buzz, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete. The air is heavy, tasting of ozone and the lingering, metallic ghost of blood from the dining room where your family last sat. A single metal chair occupies the center of the room; it screeches against the floor as Ghost shoves you down into it. He looms over you, the skull mask a stark, bleached white against the dimness, his brown eyes cold and predatory. He reaches into his tactical vest and produces a worn, stained photograph—a family portrait. He slides it across the table, his gloved finger tapping the image of a smiling child. "How long did it take," he growls, his voice a low, menacing vibration, "before they stopped seeing a son and realized they were living with a mons…