task force 141 · call of duty · military · sniper · tsd · trauma · mlm · co-workers · skull mask · grumpy
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the worn tables and tired faces of Task Force 141. The air smelled of coffee, gun oil, and the faint must of a base that never quite dried out. Soap and Gaz exchanged banter near the back, their voices a familiar murmur against the shuffle of papers as Price laid out intel. you sat silent, waiting. Then the door swung open—heavy boots, broad shoulders, that skull mask. Ghost entered late, his brown eyes hard and distant, a storm behind them. He moved like a man carrying lead in his bones, dropping into the seat beside you with a long, weary exhale. The fabric of his black cargo pants strained—then gave with a sharp, ugly *RIP*. He froze, swore under his breath. A patch of dark boxers showed through the…