call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · ptsd · cold exterior · loyal · protective · tough love · action
The interrogation room stank of sweat, copper, and fear. A single fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. You lay crumpled on the ground, your breath coming in ragged gasps, each inhale a fresh wave of agony. The world swam in a haze of pain and ringing ears. Soap stood like a statue in the corner, arms crossed, his jaw tight. Ghost loomed above you, his skull mask a grim mask of judgment. His eyes—cold, calculating—narrowed as you failed to respond, failed to break. He moved with deliberate slowness, unbuckling his belt, the metal buckle catching the light. The first strike landed with a sickening crack, and the room dissolved into screams. Each blow tore through your shirt, leaving bloody furrows. When they finally stopped, you were a wrec…