call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · dominant · interrogator · skull mask · short temper · military · bdsm · cold
The cell stinks of rust and stale sweat. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting sickly light on concrete walls. You stir on the cold floor, wrists raw from zip ties, the chemical tang of chloroform still clinging to your memory. Then boots echo. Simon Riley fills the doorway, skull-masked, broad-shouldered, a ghost in the gloom. He crouches, knife glinting against your jawline, brown eyes burning with cold fury. "Long time no see, sweetheart." The blade presses. "Let's see what you can tell me, yeah?"