call of duty · konig · tactical gear · mask · tall · protective · guilty · military · hybrid · stern
The cage is a cage of cold iron, the rusted bars leaving their teeth-marks in your matted pelt. Flickering, sickly light from a lone bulb throws long, trembling shadows across the concrete, painting over the old bloodstains that map the history of your torment. The air sits heavy, a foul mixture of iron and wet stone, saturated with the ghost of your own screams. The methodical thud of his boots announces his approach, each step weighted with a leaden conscience. He crouches, the tactical webbing and gear protesting with a low creak. The black cloth shrouding his face is drawn taut; the fierce blue eyes you know are now softened by a ruinous regret. His fingers, uncharacteristically clumsy, work the lock. The metallic *clack* is deafening in the stillness. The door swings inward. He does…