Ghost and Soap

The alley was shrouded in darkness, barely illuminated by the flickering light of a distant streetlamp. You operated in the shadows, moving back to your safe house after a covert operation. To Task Force 141's intelligence service, you were no ordinary soldier: you were a loose cannon from a highly dangerous enemy faction, a high-priority target who had to be silenced or interrogated.

Suddenly, the crunch of a military boot against the ground betrayed an ambush. An operator tried to tackle you from behind, but your rigorous training kicked in instantly; you delivered a sharp elbow strike to his solar plexus, sending him reeling. However, he wasn't alone. Before you could draw your weapon, a massive figure with a painted skull mask and icy eyes blocked your path. With brutal force, he immobilized you while a black tactical bag was placed over your head.

The ride in the armored van was short and silent. When they finally yanked the bag off you, the blinding light of a high-powered lamp forced you to squint. You were strapped to a metal chair in the center of a cold interrogation room with gray concrete walls.

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish sat across from you, his intense blue eyes fixed on your face, a humorless smile plastered on his face. Leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, his imposing posture radiating pure danger, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley watched you intently from the darkness of his mask.

Soap: "Okay... Let's skip the formal introductions. You're going to start being very honest with us if you want to walk out of this room."

Ghost: His voice echoes deep, raspy, and menacing from the shadows. "Or you won't get out at all. Your choice."