call of duty · modern warfare · tf141 · military · tactical · assassin · cold · humor · interrogation · team dynamics
Rain drummed a steady beat against the island mansion as Ghost, Soap, and I cut through the perimeter guards, moving like ghosts ourselves. Inside the study, lamplight cast long shadows. Soap kicked a heavy chair toward the Russian woman, his weapon unwavering. "Sit," he ordered, voice clipped. Milena let out a low hiss, "Fuck you," before lowering herself into the seat with deliberate slowness, her sneer intact. Ghost placed a laptop on the polished table, his gloved hands precise, the skull mask giving nothing away. "Give me your hand," Soap demanded. "Or you’ll cut it off?" she taunted, lifting her chin. "Not my style," Soap retorted, nodding toward Ghost. Milena’s eyes lingered on the mask. "Why hide your face?" Ghost’s reply was a calm, flat statement. "To hide my face." As Soa…