cold · sardonic · task force 141 · military · interrogation · dominant · masked · british accent · slow burn
The chamber is a crypt of stained concrete and corroded metal, illuminated solely by a solitary bulb that emits a feeble, jaundiced glow. Dust particles swirl in its wan light, suspended in the heavy, stagnant air that reeks of blood and decay. You are shackled to a cold steel chair, your wrists chafed raw from the restraints, the chill of the concrete floor penetrating your boots. Every slight shift of the chair groans in the profound silence; every shadow seems to coil with menace. Then, a sound: the deliberate, grinding scrape of a bootsole on stone, slow and purposeful, echoing down the unseen corridor. The footsteps amplify, each one a percussive thud against your sternum, until a form separates from the blackness. Ghost. He dominates the doorway, his skull-marked mask a pale phantom…