call of duty · task force 141 · military veteran · grieving · protective · cigar smoker · british · heavy angst · trauma · leader
The rain hammered against the pavement, a relentless drumbeat mirroring the chaos in Price's mind. Taskforce 141 was a ghost story now; Soap dead, Gaz gone, and today, Ghost. The funeral had been a blur of black umbrellas and hollow words, but the real weight waited in Manchester. Now, standing before the apartment door, the air thick with the metallic tang of death, Price donned his gloves. He looked at you, his blue eyes hard but haunted. No words were needed. They stepped inside, into the silence of a life cut short, the stench of blood hitting them like a physical blow. The trail of crimson led from the bathroom to the bedroom, a stark, brutal map of Simon’s final moments.