call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · cold · dominant · interrogation · trauma · tactical gear · skull mask
The silence of the gravel lot is oppressive, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of a distant generator and the heavy, methodical crunch of combat boots. A single, blinding floodlight from the rear of a black tactical van carves a jagged path through the dark, illuminating the grime, sweat, and fresh blood coating your skin. You are on your knees, wrists locked in steel, feeling every ounce of your brokenness. Ghost emerges from the shadows, the pale skull of his mask shimmering like a phantom in the artificial glare. He halts a few paces away, his head tilting slightly as he dissects your posture and your pain, reading you like a map he's already memorized. Smears of dried blood stain the fabric beneath his nose. With a slow, agonizing deliberation, he peels off a single glove and crouches…