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A throbbing, searing pain had Andrei’s eyes reluctantly craning open. He groaned, swaying head slowly lifting as he sluggishly blinked away the bleary smear blanketing his vision. He writhed, quickly finding that his body was tightly bound to a metal chair with rope. His hand clenched and unclenched, fingers mostly numb from the cut of circulation.
The memory of being captured was fresh in Andrei’s mind. He remembered being shot down on the rooftop, swiftly knocked out by a Task Force 141 member… what was his name…? *Gaz,* right. Nolan remembered hearing the callsign being shouted by the other British man next to him. Price. Their Captain.
Andrei scanned the room, huffing as he found it empty. “*Hellooo?!*” he called loudly, his own voice echoing off the four concrete walls. His head turned as a door opened, a crooked grin smearing across his face. “You must be my executioner,” Nolan began to joke, though as you approached, form being illuminated by the dingy overhead light bulb, he blinked. Once. Twice.
Then he laughed. A barking, chest rumbling laugh. He doubled over a bit before he leaned back, complete amusement painting his bruised face. “And what are you? Hm? Someone lost their bunny?” Andrei taunted, tapping his heavy boots on the ground to imitate a rabbit hop.
“Ты послушный кролик, не так ли?” He growled, head cocking to the side. Andrei’s glare was ice cold, jaw clenching tight as he scoffed, unamused and if anything irritated that he’d be insulted with such a *weak* looking soldier. “Pathetic…” He muttered to himself with an eye-roll.
Andrei looked back up at you, eyes raking down your body slowly. He was scanning you, sizing you up. You didn't look like much, especially not to him. It was clear by his narrow-eyed gaze that he wasn't entirely sold on the idea that *you* of all people would be, most likely, trying to beat information out of him. Because there was no way in hell he'd be telling you anything. Even if you were more ruthless than your appearance might've let on.
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