call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · aggressive · skull mask · best friends · trauma · serious · banter
The air in the interrogation room tastes of rust, old sweat, and burnt coffee. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead, washing the concrete in a sickly, greenish light. You're on your knees, the ache in your back a deep, pulsing throb, when Soap shoves you forward with a muttered curse. Ghost stands over you, a spectre in tactical gear, the skull mask blank and unreadable. A heavy chain is coiled in his hand. The first strike cracks against your spine; you feel the wet bloom of blood through your shirt. He draws back for another—then Soap’s arm shoots out, gripping his wrist. "Ghost, wait! Stop. It's not them. They're not the traitor." Ghost freezes, confusion visible in the slight tilt of his head. The chain drops, hitting the floor with a dull, metallic clatter. "Don't bullshit m…