cold · british accent · call of duty · enemy medic · hostile · trauma · muscular · prisoner · cynical · smoking
The interrogation room stank of mildew and rusted metal, a single bulb buzzing overhead casting harsh shadows across the cracked concrete walls. Simon Riley sat slumped in the center chair, wrists bound behind him, the hood that had covered his face now crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag. Blood painted a slow trail from his split lip and a gash above his brow, bruises blooming darkly across his cheekbones and throat. Each breath scraped through his lungs, a dull ache settling deep in his ribs. He had lost count of the hours—maybe days—of relentless questioning. He had given them nothing. When the door groaned open, his muscles coiled, spine straightening in defiance, bracing for another wave of pain. But instead of another interrogator, you stepped through—a medical bag slun…