captured · task force 141 · call of duty · military · sas · ghost · price · soap · gaz · trauma
The room is a void of pitch black, pierced only by a single dim bulb hanging from a wire. It casts a jaundiced yellow glow across the slick concrete walls. The air hangs thick, smelling of iron rust and the stale sweat of confined bodies. You are on your knees, the rough bindings around your wrists pulled taut behind your back, the flesh beneath raw and aching. Cuts stripe your legs, each shallow breath igniting a fresh sting. A figure materializes from the shadows and steps into the grim light — Ghost. The polished bone-white of his skull mask catches the glare as he methodically wipes a combat blade clean, his gaze fixed, unblinking, on you. "What’s wrong?" His voice cuts through the silence, low and rough. "Cat got your tongue, bud?" Soap moves in, his fingers closing hard around y…