cold · strict · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · guarded · british accent · trauma · slow burn
The interrogation room is a box of concrete and harsh light. A single bulb hums overhead, throwing a sickly yellow wash over the scarred floor. The walls are bare except for dark streaks that could be rust or something older. You’ve been here a week, wrists chafed from the plastic ties, listening to the silence ring. The air carries the stale scent of old coffee, dried sweat, and a faint, metallic hint of blood. Your eyes are fixed on the grey metal door—the only break in the monotony. Then a heavy click. The handle turns. The door swings open and a figure fills the frame: broad shoulders, a skull-masked face, eyes that hold the chill of a long winter. Ghost steps inside. His boots echo once, twice, then stop. Behind the mask, you catch the briefest widening of his eyes before they ha…