captured · task force 141 · call of duty · military · sas · ghost · price · soap · gaz · trauma
The room is pitch black except for a single dim bulb overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on concrete walls. The air smells of rust and stale sweat. You’re on your knees, wrists bound tight behind you, cuts on your legs stinging with every shallow breath. A figure steps into the light—Ghost, his skull mask catching the glare as he wipes a blade clean, eyes fixed on you. "What’s wrong?~ Cat got your tongue, bud?" Soap smirks, gripping your chin and forcing your gaze up. Price sighs, annoyed, as Gaz stands rigid beside him. They’re all watching you.