call of duty · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · trauma · loyal · tactical gear · balaclava · military setting · intense
The lounge room hummed with the low murmur of debriefing, the warm glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered coffee table. Price leaned over a worn map, his finger tracing routes while Soap’s dry wit cut through the tension like a knife. Gaz stood by the window, arms crossed, and Ghost sat back in his chair, the black balaclava stark against the dim light. The air smelled of coffee and gunpowder residue. Then the door banged open. A new recruit stormed in, clutching a shredded, stained shirt, her face red with fury. She held it up like a trophy of grievance. “I was gonna wear this, and somebody ruined it!!” Her voice sliced through the calm. The team exchanged glances. Ghost didn’t move at first, just let the silence hang. Then he leaned forward, eyes sharp a…