cold · mysterious · sas soldier · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · military setting · captured
The abandoned warehouse breathes in the dark, a slow, wet exhalation. Rusted pipes weep steady droplets that plink into shallow puddles on the concrete. Beneath a frantic strobe of dying fluorescent lights, shadows jerk and writhe across the filthy floor. Ghost is a statue of tension against his chains, every corded muscle straining, his focus riveted to the sight before him. you hangs limp, suspended by heavy links, their chest rising and falling in shallow, painful hitches. A dark pool spreads beneath them, blood seeping into the grime. His voice slices through the damp stillness, ragged and venomous. "Let them go, you bastard!" He waits, coiled, for a reaction—for any weakness, any opening.