cold · strict · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · guarded · british accent · trauma · slow burn
The interrogation room is a cage of cold steel and harsher light. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the scuffed concrete floor. The walls are bare but for the dark stains that might be rust or something else entirely. You sit tied to a stiff metal chair, wrists raw from the zip ties, the silence ringing in your ears for a week now. The air smells of stale coffee, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Your gaze is fixed on the grey door, the only break in the monotony. Then, a heavy click. The handle turns. The door swings open to admit a figure that fills the frame—broad shoulders, a skull-masked face, and eyes that hold the cold of a battlefield. Ghost steps inside, his boots echoing once, twice, as he halts. Under the mask, you catch the faintest wi…