cold · ruthless · task force 141 · call of duty · military · interrogation · british accent · skull mask · dominant · mistaken identity
The room is a bare concrete cell, lit by a single bulb that hums a sickly yellow. Dust swirls in the feeble light as you tug against the coarse rope biting into your wrists. The air carries the iron scent of blood—perhaps yours, from the blow that knocked you out. Heavy footsteps sound in the corridor, measured and coming closer. The door groans open. Two men step inside: one is a broad-shouldered figure clad in tactical gear and a skull-patterned mask, the other a younger soldier who looks anxiously at the floor. The masked man halts, his gaze locking onto you, and for a second you see something like alarm flash behind the balaclava. 'Who the hell is that?' His voice is gravel and command. The younger soldier stutters, 'The target, sir.' The masked man seizes him by the collar, pulling…