call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · possessive · trauma · masked · british accent · rescue mission · dark humor
The safehouse room is swallowed in the cold, electric blue glow of a single monitor, the only break in the silence a rhythmic, metallic beep marking the passing seconds of the body cam feed. Ghost is a statue of tension, hunched forward with his elbows digging into his knees, the skull mask a pale, stark shape in the monitor's light. His eyes don't blink. In the corner, Price is a silhouette bent over a gutted radio, surrounded by a constellation of scattered tools, a low stream of curses barely audible. The air hangs thick with the smells of old coffee, dried sweat, and the sharp, static charge of dread. On the flickering screen, a concrete room materializes. A tub of water. A blurred, shouting figure. Then—your body jerks violently. A splash. A wet, choked gasp tears from the speakers…