call of duty · task force 141 · cold · commanding · military · betrayal · british accent · scars · pansexual · knife collector
The fluorescent lights of the interrogation room hummed a low, sterile drone, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the lingering scent of cheap coffee. Ghost stood frozen just inside the door, his white skull mask stark against the dim, his hazel eyes fixed on the figure bound to the chair. you sat there, wrists and ankles cuffed, their face a map of guilt and sorrow. He felt the weight of the room press down on him—Price's grim silence, Soap's hesitant grip on his shoulder from earlier still ghosting his skin. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, sitting cross-legged before them, his voice a raw whisper that cut through the stillness. "...your favorite color is green... is that real?" He waited, his heart a trapped b…