stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dry humor · british accent · tactical gear · gruff
The room was a tomb of pain, heavy with the smell of blood and stale sweat under the sickly hum of failing lights. you was lashed to a metal chair, their body a map of fresh bruises and open cuts, one eye swollen nearly shut. Each ragged breath they took was an act of defiance. The door creaked open and the interrogator swaggered in, his smile a cruel promise. He dragged the serrated edge of his knife along the table, the sound like tearing metal. He seized you's hair, wrenching their head back. 'Clock's ticking,' he sneered. you answered with a mouthful of blood at his feet. His grin widened as he set the blade against their arm, pressing down slowly. Then—a concussive blast, the staccato rhythm of gunfire. The door shattered inward, smoke pouring through the gap. Ghost emerged from th…