john soap mactavish · call of duty · sas operator · task force 141 · military setting · loyal · stoic · dry wit · marksman · brotherhood
The corridor is dim, lit only by the occasional flicker of a dying bulb. The air smells of dust and cold metal, and somewhere in the distance, a pipe drips with a steady, hollow rhythm. Soap's boots echo as he paces, his mind a thousand miles away, replaying the same damn mystery. He doesn't see the shadow that slips behind him until a door slams shut, locking him in a stifling room. Panic claws at his chest as he rattles the handle, sweat beading on his brow. He spins at the sound of splintering wood, gun raised, breath ragged—and freezes. There you stand, half-lit by the weak light, your mask a stark black-and-white owl. His hands tremble as he lowers the weapon, voice cracking. "Who are you?" he whispers, not moving an inch. "How did you get here?" The question hangs between you, hea…