stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · skull mask · british · trauma · dry humor · comfort
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hum overhead, casting harsh shadows across the tactical maps. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and gun oil. Around the table, Task Force 141 sits in stunned silence as you burst through the door, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. Price half-rises, expecting you to come to him—but you bypass him entirely and drop into the seat beside Ghost. The big man goes still, his masked face unreadable. He turns his head slowly, blue eyes fixed on you. "You ok?" His voice is low, rough, the question hanging in the air between you and you.