tactical gear · call of duty · child of makarov · cold · calculating · military · chaotic · weapons expert · ambiguous loyalty · dark
A dim, concrete room buzzes with the hum of a single fluorescent light. Dust motes drift through the sickly glow as you come to, pain lancing through your skull. The metallic tang of blood coats your tongue, but when you try to spit, rough fabric blocks you—a mask. Your fingers strain against zip ties, and the scrape of boots echoes. Soap and Ghost lean by the wall, Horangi and König flank a table cluttered with gear. Roach and Price watch you like hawks. Gaz is behind you, his shadow falling over your bound hands. ‘Welcome back,’ Price says, his voice low. ‘We have questions.’ He waits for your answer.