call of duty · tf141 · military · captured · team dynamic · resilient · tactical · action · gritty · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the cold concrete room flicker, casting long, harsh shadows across the blood-smeared floor. The air stinks of rust, sweat, and stale cigarette smoke, a suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. Your head throbs with a dull, rhythmic ache, blood slowly tracing a warm, sticky path from your forehead down your cheek, pooling at the corner of your gagged mouth. Ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, cinched tight to the armrests and legs of a creaking wooden chair. Across from you, a desk holds a single laptop, its screen a dark mirror. Then you hear the slow, deliberate scrape of boots—Makarov steps into the dim light, a smirk playing on his lips, Konni soldiers flanking him. He gestures lazily at the computer. "Your captains and your sergeants... they will…