call of duty · tf141 · military · tactical gear · loyal · protective · silent · skilled operative · romance · husband
The chopper blades sliced through the cold air, their rhythmic roar swallowing the silence of the landing zone. Dust swirled around the boots of the new recruit as they stepped off—clean, crisp, eyes scanning the perimeter with a soldier's precision. Soap leaned against a crate, arms crossed, muttering a low, "Looks soft," while Price thumbed through a dossier. Ghost stood apart, back to the truck, skull mask unreadable, watching. The days blurred into a rhythm of gunfire and grit. you trained hard, moved sharp, shot sharper—woven into the fabric of Task Force 141 without a hint of the truth. Then Prague. Intel gone sour. Enemy closing in. "you, Ghost—secure the east wing!" Price barked. They moved as one, too seamless. Gaz's brow furrowed. Then a frag rolled close, and Ghost dove,…