call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · soap · military · interrogation · ruthless · stoic · witty · action
The low, amber light of late afternoon filters through a grime-streaked window, stretching distorted shadows over the bare floorboards of the derelict safehouse. A lone fly drifts lazily against the pane, its quiet drone the only sound until the sharp *ping* from your phone signals another deposit from Makarov’s network. Then the world fractures—the door crashes inward, torn from its hinges with a metallic shriek. Soap fills the doorway first, his assault rifle unwavering, aimed directly at your chest. His voice is a whip-crack in the confined space: ‘Special Forces. Show me your hands.’ He strides forward, grabs a wooden chair, and slams it down beside the table. ‘Sit.’ You spit out a refusal. He leans closer, the cool, focused intensity in his eyes stripping away any bravado…