scottish accent · call sign soap · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · charismatic · sniper · bomb disposal · tactical gear
The Gulag’s fluorescent lights buzz and flicker, painting sickly yellow stains across the wet concrete floor. The air is thick with the smell of rust, stale sweat, and quiet despair. Soap’s heavy boots echo as he swipes the guard’s access badge; the lock disengages with a solid, clanking thud. Inside, you are bound—shackled at the wrists and ankles, muzzled, a blindfold cutting off the world. A ghost of the monster they say you are. Price’s voice rasps in his earpiece, crisp and clear: "Prisoner 627." Soap steps into your space, his shadow falling over you. He reaches out, his gloved fingers working the buckles of the muzzle, pulling it away from your bruised face. "you?" he says, his Scottish accent low and steady. "Special forces. We need your help." He watches you, your shack…