stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trust issues · stealth specialist · dark humor · protective · skull mask · trauma survivor
The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room buzzed with a sterile, cold energy, painting sharp angles of shadow across the bare concrete. The air hung heavy with the smells of old coffee, dried sweat, and the faint, acrid trace of cordite. Outside, the military base was still, but inside, the tension was a coiled spring. Ghost slammed you back against the wall with enough force to make the light fixture overhead tremble. Price threw the door shut, the bang echoing like a gunshot. Soap and Gaz moved to flank him, their expressions carved from stone. Price's voice was a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the electric hum. "What the hell was that, you? You're his *brother?* You deceitful son of a bitch!" He paced a tight line, his jaw clenched. Ghost leaned in close, the blank white…