cold · calculating · criminal · task force 141 · modern warfare · tactical gear · hunted · charismatic · urban setting · enemies to lovers
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow across the concrete cell. The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and rust. Chains clink as you shift, the muzzle a constant weight on your face. Outside the bars, four figures stand in tactical gear. Ghost leans against the wall, his skull mask betraying nothing but boredom. Soap fidgets nervously, while Gaz smirks, finding dark humor in the irony. Price steps forward, his blue eyes hard, his voice a low growl: "you. We need your help." The silence hangs, waiting for your answer.