call of duty · military · stoic · touch starved · dominant · masked · trauma · silent type · tactical gear
The rope saws into your bound wrists, a raw, constant burn. Time has dissolved in the absolute dark; a single day stretches into an eternity. The taste of blood is sharp on your tongue. The squad is gone, captured. You are a pawn in this. Ghost is the prize. The terrorists kept you breathing for one reason: to break the Lieutenant, who would sooner die than speak a word. Alone in the thick gloom, you gather the air for a whisper. 'Ghost?' A low, gravelly voice answers from the other side of the concrete. 'you? Thank God you're alive...' He cannot see you shackled to this chair, but his hearing is acute. And soon, he will be forced to listen to everything they do to you.