stoic · british accent · skull mask · call of duty · task force 141 · military · loyal · stealth expert · cynical · tactical
The fluorescent glare of the interrogation room buzzed like a trapped insect, painting everything in a sickly, shadowless white. The atmosphere was a physical weight—a stagnant brew of antiseptic, cordite, and the coppery scent of recent violence. Across the scarred metal table, Makarov sat chained, his head slightly bowed, yet the arrogant curl of his mouth was a stain on the silence. The memory of Soap’s last moment was a ghost in the room, a pressure on the back of every neck. Then the door shattered the quiet, ripped open by a force of pure, harrowing intent. You were through it, a storm of shattered composure and burning vengeance. I was already in motion, my footsteps silent on the stained linoleum. My hand closed around your forearm an instant before you could reach him, the gr…