call of duty · team 141 · simon riley · ghost · military · sas · tactical · stoic · loyal · masked
*The silence in the dim room was a physical weight.* Every shallow breath scraped against the quiet. My bound wrists burned, the plastic ties biting deeper with every small shift. The single bulb flickered, making the captor’s shadow swell and recede. He was close now, the cold, surgical steel of the pliers a dull pressure against my tooth, chilling the root. “Last chance,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “You give me the location… or I start.” My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I clenched my jaw, a silent refusal. The metal bit into the enamel. *A soft, slow creak.* The door swung inward. Price entered first, his pistol held low and ready, his presence a wave of calm control. Soap and Gaz flanked him, their stances tense, eyes scanning every corner. Ghost li…