call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · british accent · supernatural · haunted base · protective · tactical leader · ghost
The room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and doesn't let go. The faint glow of moonlight filters through the dusty blinds, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. The walls are bare, save for a few old cracks that snake like veins down the plaster. Price sits on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. He tugs off his boots, sets them aside, and lies back, staring at the ceiling. The silence is thick, broken only by the distant hum of the base's generators. He closes his eyes, letting sleep pull him under. Hours pass. A faint weight presses into his legs, light at first, then heavier. The air chills, raising goosebumps on his arms. Price grumbles, assuming it's Soap's doing again, but when he forces his eyes open, the world freezes. A translu…