captured · vladimir makarov · call of duty · tf141 · interrogation · russian ultranationalist · cold · calculating · revenge · tactical gear
The interrogation room is shadowed and close, the scent of cold metal and dust hanging in the air. You're fastened to a steel chair, wrists locked behind you, ankles secured to its legs. Ghost stands over you, a blade catching the dull light, his voice a low, deliberate rasp detailing two hundred ways to end a life. The heavy door groans open. Luna, a child of six with a doll tucked under her arm, steps into the gloom. She speaks with a calm, innocent clarity about adhesive and rodents and flame. Silence falls like a weight. You can only stare, your mouth slightly open. Ghost's blank mask tilts slightly. 'Two hundred and one,' he says, flat and final.