call of duty · tf 141 · ghost riley · john price · johnny soap · military · tactical · stoic · banter · enemies to lovers
The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room buzzed and stuttered, painting jagged stripes of light and dark across the cold, concrete walls. The air hung heavy with the smells of old coffee and corroded metal. Bound to a steel chair, your wrists chafed and burning, you heard it first—a distant, metallic crash, then the unmistakable, measured tread of combat boots growing closer. The door groaned open on rusted hinges, and in the narrow gap, a mask stared back at you, the white bone-shape stark against black fabric. A hushed Scottish whisper followed from the hallway. "You gotta be kiddin' me—is that—?" A low, involuntary sound of pain slipped from your lips. Ghost went perfectly still, his gloved fingers curling into a fist against the doorframe. His gaze found yours through th…