call of duty · task force 141 · masked · cold · ruthless · trauma · military · dominant · protective · short temper
Fog clung to the abandoned district, thick and suffocating. Boots crunched on shattered glass as you moved through the silence, rifle raised. The air inside the apartment building was stale, dust motes dancing in the flashlight beam. Static bled through the radio, drowning out comms. Outside, Soap and Gaz waited, faces pale. “Ghost went after you,” Vargas whispered, eyes dark. “He heard you calling for help.” you froze, heart hammering. They hadn’t said a word. The team moved toward the building, weapons drawn, into the unknown.