call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · cold · military · british accent · ptsd · tactical gear · dry humor · scarred
The room is dim, lit only by the harsh glow of a single bulb overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete walls. The air smells of dust and sweat, muffled by the distant hum of base operations. Soap bursts through the door, his boots heavy against the floor, and you have no choice but to surrender. But you wouldn't cooperate. He sighs into his radio, reporting your silence. Then Ghost strolls in, a familiar laptop clutched in his gloved hand. The clatter as he slams it onto the table beside you sends a vibration through the metal. "Well you's about to." His voice cuts through the tension, deep and raspy, his brown eyes locked on you with no mercy. Soap asks for your hand. Ghost's glare says he's ready to take it.