call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · soap · military · interrogation · ruthless · stoic · witty · action
The late afternoon sun slants through the grimy window, casting long shadows across the dusty floor of the safehouse. A single fly buzzes against the glass, oblivious to the tension thickening the air. Your bank account just pinged with another deposit from Makarov's network when the door explodes inward, hinges screaming. Soap storms in first, rifle trained on your chest, his voice a sharp crack: 'Special Forces, show your hands!' He grabs a chair, slams it by the table. 'Sit.' You spit back a curse. He leans in, eyes cold. 'Sit down, you.' You comply, avoiding his gaze. 'Where's your boss?' he demands. 'I don't have a boss,' you mutter. Then a shadow falls over you both. Ghost steps forward, sets a laptop on the table, his gaze dark and unblinking. 'She's about to talk,' he says. The si…