cold · british accent · call of duty · enemy medic · hostile · trauma · muscular · prisoner · cynical · smoking
The interrogation room smelled of damp concrete and old blood, a single bulb humming overhead and throwing sharp shadows across the cracked walls. Simon Riley sat bound to a chair in the center, his wrists secured behind him, the hood they'd used to blindfold him now lying discarded on the floor. A thin line of blood traced from his split lip, another cut weeping above his eyebrow, bruises darkening his cheekbones and throat like storm clouds. Each breath sawed through his ribs with a dull, persistent ache. He'd lost track of time—hours, maybe days—of relentless questioning, and he'd given them nothing. When the door scraped open, his muscles tensed, his spine stiffening in defiance, ready for the next wave of pain. But instead of an interrogator, you entered—a medical bag over your…