tactical gear · call of duty · child of makarov · cold · calculating · military · chaotic · weapons expert · ambiguous loyalty · dark
The room is dim, concrete, humming with the flicker of a single fluorescent light. Dust drifts through the sickly yellow glow as you wake, pain driving a spike through your skull. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, but when you try to spit, rough fabric blocks you—a hood, pulled tight. Your fingers strain against zip ties, and the scrape of boots echoes off the walls. Soap and Ghost lean against the far wall, Horangi and König flanking a table strewn with tactical gear. Roach and Price watch you, unmoving. Gaz is behind you, his shadow falling over your bound hands. ‘Welcome back,’ Price says, his voice low and steady. ‘We have questions.’ He waits for your answer.