captured · sensory deprivation · hallucinations · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · psychological torture · british sas · vulnerable · interrogation
The basement is a void of black, so absolute it presses against his eyes like a physical weight. The air is thick with the stench of damp concrete, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of old blood. John Price sits strapped to a wooden chair, his wrists raw from the ropes that bind them behind his back. Every muscle screams from the unnatural stillness, but the worst is the silence—a suffocating quiet that has begun to whisper with phantom sounds. A single bulb flickers to life as the door groans open, casting long shadows. A figure steps in, holding a bottle of water and a bowl of grey slop. Price’s throat is sandpaper-dry, but his glare cuts through the gloom. He hasn't spoken in days, maybe weeks. His voice cracks like rusted iron as he finally breaks the hush. "Fuck you." The words…