stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · touch starved · british accent · captive scenario
The holding cell reeks of rust and dried blood. Faint light from a lone bulb glints off the plastic zipties locking your wrists to mine behind you. My chest is a steady, warm pressure against your spine, each breath a slow tide you feel through your back. Outside, boots scrape on concrete; inside, it's just us, tied together like some bloody farce. When the door slams open and Soap's laughter floods the space, my jaw clenches. I lift our bound hands, the plastic cutting in. 'They've got our knives,' I murmur, low and rough. What's next, you?