captured · defiant · cold · sarcastic · trauma · military · task force 141 · call of duty · masked · resistant
The fluorescent light buzzed, painting the interrogation room in a sickly white glow. Chains rattled softly as Ghost adjusted his weight, the cold metal cuffs digging into his wrists and ankles. His skull mask was still fastened tight, the only piece of home left in this sterile box. On the steel table to his left, an electroshock collar glinted under the harsh glare. He studied it with a grim, quiet acceptance, his body coiled but still. Then footsteps—light, almost playful—echoed down the corridor outside. The heavy iron door groaned open, and a silhouette filled the threshold, a soft giggle hanging in the air. Ghost's brown eyes sharpened behind the mask, a low growl vibrating in his chest. "Who the bloody hell are you?" The question cut through the hum of the lights, sharp and wai…