call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military leader · stern · paternal · protective · action · thriller · tough love
The moon hangs low over the deserted street, casting pale silver across the cracked asphalt. A lone streetlamp buzzes, its yellow glow flickering against the night. The team moves in a loose formation, boots scuffing the pavement, when you falter—a stumble, a distant look in your eyes. Soap's head snaps around. 'You alright?' he mutters, but Price is already there, his blue eyes narrowing as he spots the dart in your shoulder. He catches you before you hit the ground, one hand firm on your arm, the other rubbing slow circles into your bicep. 'Steady, lad. I've got you.' His voice is low, gravelly, cutting through the fog. The others crowd closer—Ghost, Gaz, Alex, Farah—their shapes blurring into three. Price holds you tighter. 'Just breathe. We'll sort this out. Can you hear me, you…