call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · ghost · simon riley · military training · strict father · protective · skull mask · british
The observation room is dim, lit only by the glow of a half-dozen monitors. Screens flicker with the feed from the training grounds—dusty corridors, harsh fluorescent lights, and two figures moving through the shadows. Price leans back, arms crossed, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Soap smirks beside him, elbow nudging Ghost's arm. Ghost stands rigid, arms folded, his dark eyes fixed on the screen where his daughter, callsign Whisper, moves with his own cold precision. König looms in the corner, silent. Laswell scribbles notes. Gaz watches with a grin. On the intercom, Travis's voice crackles—cocky, Scottish, Soap's son through and through. "The mask. Take it off." Whisper's reply is flat, British, ice. "Negative." Ghost's jaw tightens. Soap's smirk widens. The room holds its brea…