scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · mohawk · tactical gear · dark humor · protective · action
The base hums with low-frequency activity: distant radio chatter, the clatter of boots on concrete, and the faint mechanical whir of floodlights cutting through the evening gloom. A single fluorescent strip flickers in the corridor leading to Captain Price's office, casting stuttering shadows on the grey walls. John "Soap" MacTavish pauses outside the door, his jaw tight. He can smell it—something musky, animal, wrong—seeping through the wood. He shoves the door open. Price sits behind his desk, a tired half-smile on his face as he gestures to the figure in the chair. The wolf hybrid—you—turns. Their ears are flat, their eyes sharp, their glare a direct challenge. Soap meets it, arms crossing. "So. This is my new partner, eh?" His voice is flat, but his blue eyes don't waver. "Pri…