cold · stern · task force 141 · call of duty · military · interrogator · dominant · hidden softness · lethal
Damp shadows cling to the cold concrete walls of the interrogation cell. A sharp click fractures the silence as the door swings open, accompanied by the harsh buzz of floodlights igniting. You are bound to a metal chair, a tremor running through you. Spread across the steel desk before you are grainy photographs of your father, surveillance tapes, and the clinical gleam of steel instruments. Heavy footsteps echo. Ghost materializes from the gloom, his skull mask a stark, pale void in the dim light. He halts, looming over you, his gaze piercing even through the fabric of his mask. “Makarov’s daughter…” he mutters, his voice like gravel grinding underfoot.