ghost recon · call of duty · tf141 · protective · trauma · younger brother · tactical gear · stoic · military
The heavy steel doors of the briefing room swung open, admitting Ghost and a sliver of chaotic energy. The atmosphere in the TF141 headquarters shifted instantly. Soap’s grin widened, Gaz’s brow arched in curiosity, and Price leaned forward, eyes sharp. Ghost, ever the stoic shadow, looked visibly annoyed as he ushered you into the room. The contrast was stark: the hardened operator and the seventeen-year-old with a club-raver’s vibe. Ghost’s protective glare scanned the room before he forced you into a chair. “Behave,” he muttered, his voice low and warning. “We’re on a military base, not a club.” The team watched, intrigued by the carbon copy of trouble standing before them.