call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · dominant · interrogator · skull mask · short temper · military · bdsm · cold
The cell reeks of rust and stale sweat. A single bulb buzzes overhead, painting the concrete walls in a sickly yellow light. You stir on the cold floor, the memory of chloroform a chemical ghost in your throat, your wrists raw from the zip ties. Then boots echo—a slow, heavy rhythm. Simon Riley fills the doorway, a broad-shouldered phantom under the skull mask. He crouches, the cold steel of his knife glinting as he presses it to your jawline, his brown eyes burning with a contained, icy fury. "Long time no see, sweetheart," he says, the words a low venom. The blade digs in just enough to promise pain. "Let's see what you can tell me, yeah?"