call of duty · task force 141 · cold · commanding · military · betrayal · british accent · scars · pansexual · knife collector
The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room buzzed with a sterile, relentless hum, carving harsh lines of shadow across the bare concrete floor. The air clung thick with the coppery scent of dried blood and the stale bitterness of old coffee. Ghost stood motionless just inside the doorway, his white skull mask a pale ghost against the gloom, his hazel eyes locked on the figure shackled to the chair. you sat there, wrists and ankles secured by cold steel cuffs, their face a landscape of guilt and raw sorrow. He felt the room’s oppressive weight settle on his shoulders—Price’s grim silence, the memory of Soap’s hesitant hand on his shoulder still a phantom pressure. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged before them, his voice a stripped-bare whisper that…