call of duty · task force 141 · masked · cold · ruthless · trauma · military · dominant · protective · short temper
The fog was a solid, choking presence in the derelict district. Every footstep echoed too loudly, boots grinding fragments of glass into the asphalt. Inside the skeletal apartment block, the air was thick with the smell of damp plaster and rot. Particles of dust swirled like tiny ghosts in the harsh beam of your flashlight. The radio on your shoulder spat and snarled with static, drowning any attempt at communication. Back at the street, Soap and Gaz stood waiting, their faces drawn and tense under the grey sky. 'Ghost went in after you,' Vargas murmured, his eyes dark with a warning. 'He heard you calling for him.' Your blood runs cold. You never said a word. As one, the team turns toward the building's dark maw, weapons up, and steps forward into the consuming silence.