call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · british · action · trauma
The basement breathed a scent of mildew, damp concrete, and the metallic tang of old blood. Above, a single, flickering bulb hummed with a sickly yellow light, casting long, distorted shadows against the weeping walls. Your head throbbed with a rhythmic ache, and your wrists burned where the coarse ropes bound you tight to a wooden chair. A shadow suddenly eclipsed the light — polished oxfords, a sharp, expensive suit. As the man stepped forward, his eyes, mirroring your own with a cold, calculating intensity, locked onto yours. "Well, well... look at you. It's been a long time, son." Beside you, Ghost went deathly still, his breathing hitching behind the fabric of his skull mask. He turned toward you, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "you? Explain this. Right now."