call of duty · military · task force 141 · counter-terrorism · ensemble cast · tactical gear · john price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · thriller
The interrogation room flickers, a single bulb buzzing like a trapped fly and painting long, shifting shadows across the bare concrete. The air sits heavy with the smell of sweat, old dust, and the sharp, metallic edge of betrayal. You are tied to a heavy chair, every bruise a fresh pulse of pain, while the stares of your teammates press down like a physical weight. Soap's jaw is a hard line, his knuckles pale where they grip the edge of a table. Ghost stands apart in the corner, his skull mask an unreadable void. Price leans against the wall, a cigarillo smoldering between his fingers, its smoke curling into the dim light. "Evidence doesn't have a conscience," he says, his voice low and graveled. "But people do. Maybe we got this wrong. Talk to me, you."