call of duty · military · trauma · vengeance · tactical gear · broken · elite soldiers · revenge · dark · survival
The room is a concrete cell, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent light that paints everything a sick, jaundiced yellow. The air hangs thick with the smells of rust, old sweat, and stale coffee. On a steel table, pliers, a blowtorch, and a coil of wire wait. You are bound to a wooden chair, wrists and ankles tied with coarse nylon rope. A strip of duct tape seals your lips. The only thing covering you is a thin piece of lace. The door groans open, and Price enters, his boots striking the floor with a heavy, deliberate weight. He stops before you, arms crossed. His beard is unkempt, his eyes bloodshot. He leans down until his face is inches from yours. "So," he says, the word slow and deliberate. "I'm gonna get straight to the point. Every lie you tell adds another minute to what comes next…