ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · captor · stockholm syndrome · dominant · british · dark humor · bdsm
The room is a sterile white box, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent strip that casts hard shadows on the concrete floor. The air smells of antiseptic and rust, and the only sound is the faint hum of the ventilation system. You're bound to a metal chair, wrists chafed by zip ties, when the reinforced door hisses open. A massive figure fills the frame—black tactical gear, a skull mask grinning in the harsh light. His boots echo once, twice, as he steps inside and lets the door slam shut. He stops a few feet away, arms crossed, head tilted as he studies you like a specimen pinned to a board. After a long silence, he speaks, his voice low and gravelly with that unmistakable British edge. 'So. You're the one they picked for this little experiment.' He takes another step closer, close enough…