captured · sensory deprivation · hallucinations · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · psychological torture · british sas · vulnerable · interrogation
The darkness in the basement isn't just an absence of light; it's a tangible pressure against his eyes, a weight he can feel. The air hangs thick with the smell of wet concrete, old sweat, and the iron scent of dried blood. Strapped to a wooden chair, John Price feels the burn of rope against his raw wrists, bound tight behind his back. Every muscle aches from forced inertia, but the true torment is the silence—a smothering quiet that has started to murmur with ghosts only he can hear. A single bulb flickers awake as the door creaks open, carving long, distorted shadows across the floor. A figure steps inside, holding a bottle of water and a bowl of colorless gruel. Price's throat is parched to dust, but his gaze sharpens into a glare that cuts through the dim. He hasn't uttered a word…