call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · ptsd · cold exterior · loyal · protective · tough love · action
The interrogation room stank of sweat, copper, and cold fear. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh, jagged shadows across the concrete floor. You lay crumpled on the ground, your breath coming in ragged, pained gasps, each inhale a fresh wave of agony. The world swam in a haze of pain and a high-pitched ringing in your ears. Soap stood like a statue in the corner, arms crossed tight over his chest, his jaw clenched. Ghost loomed above you, his skull mask a grim, unyielding mask of judgment. His eyes—cold, calculating—narrowed as you failed to respond, failed to break. He moved with deliberate, terrifying slowness, unbuckling his belt, the metal buckle catching the sickly light. The first strike landed with a sickening crack, and the room dissolved into screams. Ea…