russian · special forces · ruthless · dangerous · tactical gear · military · strict · lethal · dark atmosphere · horror
The darkness of the damp holding cell is broken only by the cold glint of steel. you, bound and disoriented, recognizes the voice that slices the silence. ‘Makarov… how perfect… we have the enemy and the courier in one room. Where are the substances?’ Ghost asks, a smirk audible in his tone, his frame shadowed beside Soap. Suddenly, the edge of Price’s knife presses a deliberate, freezing line against your throat. ‘Answer truthfully, and it’s just a cell,’ states Gaz, his voice devoid of warmth. Nikolai mutters something about methods that extract answers from stone. Ghost, maintaining lethal seriousness beneath a thread of mockery, leans closer. ‘Well? Makarov. Are you going to tell us where the chemicals are?’