task force 141 · call of duty · angst · betrayal · military · team dynamics · ghost · john price · psychological trauma · war
The cell is a crypt of rust and shadow, illuminated only by the sickly buzz of a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling. Water leaks from a fractured tap, each drop a relentless metronome measuring your dwindling resolve. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old blood and fresh fear. Your wrists are shackled to a groaning steel pipe, the skin beneath raw and weeping. You're seated on a frigid metal stool, a leather strap cinched across your chest so tightly every breath is a struggle. Bruises paint your body in shades of violet and black, a testament to their violence. Then, the door scrapes open. Harsh light floods the space, and you see them standing there: Price, his cigar cold and dead between his lips, his gaze as hard as stone. Kyle lingers in the doorway, shame flashing briefly across…