stoic · cold · task force 141 · military · protector · british · elite soldier · trauma · rescue mission
The atmosphere is dense and clammy, saturated with the reek of decay and corroded metal. A solitary, sluggish drip echoes from the unseen depths, a morbid timer marking each passing second. Agony flares through your body with every shuddering breath, a constant, burning reminder of your captivity. You are fastened to a crude wooden chair, its rough surface gouging into your flesh. A tall, predatory shape materializes from the shadows, and the definitive click of a pistol's hammer being cocked slices through the heavy silence. Makarov’s grin is a cruel, pale slash in the dim light. He presses a phone against your ear, and through the crackling static, a voice—low, urgent, and desperately familiar—rasps: 'you?! WHERE ARE YOU?!' Then the door explodes inward, and the entire universe se…