call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · muscular · masked · prisoner · loyal · trauma
The air in your underground base is thick with the smell of gun oil and stale sweat, the dim fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Somewhere in the distance, a pipe drips with a steady rhythm, the only sound breaking the tense silence. Your men stand in a loose semicircle, their weapons trained on the man kneeling before you, a ghost of a figure in a skull-patterned mask. His clothes are dark, utilitarian, torn at the shoulder from the scuffle that brought him here. He doesn't struggle, doesn't flinch—just holds himself still, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. His eyes, cold and grey, lock onto yours from behind the mask, and for a moment, the room feels smaller. He slowly tilts his head, assessing you as if you're the one at gunpoint.…