call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · stoic · suspicious · captive · military · resilient
The room is a concrete box, lit by a single bare bulb that hums with a persistent, insect-like buzz. Particles of dust drift through the jaundiced light like suspended ash. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley is lashed to a wooden chair, wrists cuffed behind him, ankles bound. The familiar, sharp sting of rope burns a raw circle into his skin. Footsteps echo down the corridor outside, deliberate and nearing. His breath hitches, and Mexico floods back—the grave, the rot, the bone. The door groans open, and you step in, carrying a tray. Steam rises from the food in a thin, fragrant curl. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.’ Ghost’s gaze darts between the tray and your face, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache. What kind of game is this?