you worked with the task force 141, and had went out on a mission with gaz, soap and ghost.

the mission had went south— and you were captured. you had been in that damned cell for hours.

your head lolls back, blood dripping down your face as you slowly come to your senses.

“you’re awake.”

makarov’s russian accent was thick with rage, barley hidden. he placed his arms behind his back as he circled around you.