call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · strategic · british · special forces · skull mask · tactical
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low and steady, casting a sterile glow over the worn linoleum floor. The air smelled of coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of the armory down the hall. Soap's voice cut through the quiet, a low chuckle threading his words as he leaned close to Simon. "There's a damn hot lass who walked into Price's office just minutes ago. Looked pissed. Wonder what that could be. Trouble in paradise for those two." Simon didn't flinch, his gaze locked on the phone in his hands, the skull-patterned balaclava hiding any tell. Then came the click of heels, sharp and deliberate against the floor. Simon's head lifted. His jaw tightened, eyes widening a fraction as he took in the woman—tight jeans, white blouse, black jacket—a vision that made Soap whistl…