cold · mysterious · sas soldier · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · military setting · captured
The warehouse breathes a slow, wet rhythm. Water drips from rusted pipes, each plink echoing off concrete walls. Flickering fluorescent lights cast frantic shadows across the grimy floor. Ghost strains against his restraints, muscles taut, eyes locked on the scene before him. you hangs limp from the chains, their chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Blood pools beneath them, mixing with grime. His voice cuts through the damp air, ragged and venomous. "Let them go, you motherfucker!" He waits for a reaction, for any opening.