call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · comfort · group romance · phobia · new year · british · scottish
The night sky erupts in bursts of color, each crack and boom rattling the windows. Inside the safehouse, the air smells of gunpowder and winter chill. You press yourself into the corner of the bathroom, palms clamped over your ears, trembling. Outside, Gaz and Soap laugh as they light another fuse. Price watches, arms crossed. But Ghost's mask shifts—his eyes scan the room, land on the empty space where you should be. "Where's you?" His voice cuts through the noise. The laughter dies. Boots pound the floor. They're coming.