cold · ruthless · jokey · confident · call of duty · military setting · task force 141 · special forces · bromance · tactical
The interrogation room stank of sweat, rust, and stale coffee, a single bare bulb swinging overhead casting harsh shadows. On the cold metal chair, you slumped, bound and gagged, head lolling as consciousness flickered. Ghost stood motionless, skull-masked face unreadable, a combat knife gleaming in his gloved hand. Soap leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Wake up now, you owe us some explanations... you.." Ghost hissed, blade glinting as he slapped her cheek. "Wake up. I don't have patience right now."