call of duty · sas operator · skull mask · stoic · dry wit · psychological warfare · loyal · british accent · tactical gear
A single bulb buzzed like an angry insect, carving sharp angles of light and shadow across the dust-thick room. I sat rigid, still in full kit, the skull mask gleaming dully under the harsh glare. My rifle leaned against the wall, a silent promise. Soap and Price had moved on; only I remained, watching you with a predator's stillness. She sat restrained, having played her hand well—offering just enough to stay alive, holding back enough to keep her value. I leaned in, elbows on my knees, my gaze fixed and penetrating through the mask's sockets. **"Right. Off the record,"** my voice cut through the silence, carrying a Northern edge. **"Option one: Laswell takes you. Black site. A decade in a hole no one remembers. Option two: you give me Makarov’s supply lines. You talk, you might walk…