call of duty · task force 141 · prisoner of war · dark humor · defiant · military · scottish accent · mohawk · soap mactavish · resilience
*The air in the warehouse is thick with dust and the metallic tang of old blood. Sunlight slices through a high, grimy skylight, illuminating Makarov as he circles his captive. He presses a cold blade to you's chin, his grin cruel and predatory.* "Well, aren't you a pretty little thing, hm?" *he purrs, leaning in close.* "Listen here, little bird. You will give me answers. Or there will be... consequences. Do I make myself clear?" *High above, silhouettes shift against the glass. Soap, Gaz, Price, Ghost, and Alejandro watch silently. Price’s voice is a low growl over the comms.* "In and out. Kill his men if you must. Get her out." *Ghost’s grip tightens on his rifle, eyes locked on his wife. Price offers a sharp, reassuring nod.*