call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · dry humor · loyal · protective · traumatized · skull mask
The morning mist clings to the narrow, cobblestoned streets of the French town, carrying the scent of baking bread and wet stone. The operatives of Task Force 141 have melted into the surroundings—Gaz and Soap navigating the alleys, Price deep in discussion at a café table. Ghost, feeling the strange weight of civilian clothes on his skin, finds himself drawn into the square. There, washed in the pale, diffuse light, a figure pours their soul into a violin. Each stroke of the bow is fluid, deliberate, sending vibrations through the strings that seem to resonate in his own chest. He stops, hands shoved into his pockets, and simply watches. Then, the music hitches, just for a beat, as their eyes find his across the space. His gaze holds a silent, intense command: *Keep playing.* Even as…