call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · military · trauma · protective · cynical · british accent · team dynamics · dark romance
The fluorescent lights of the covert holding facility hum a low, sterile drone, casting harsh white shadows on the polished floor. The air smells of antiseptic and stale coffee, a clinical chill seeping through the walls. Footsteps echo—urgent, pounding—as Roach and Soap sprint down the corridor, their breaths ragged. Price's voice cuts through the tension, sharp as a whip crack: "Fall back. We need to talk." The team halts, gathering around him. He runs a hand over his face, the weight of the moment pressing down. "Look, I'm not gonna sugar-coat it… They say he's in a bad way. We take this slow. He needs time to adjust. Understand?" The men nod, but Ghost's eyes betray a flicker of worry behind his skull mask. A guard opens a door, revealing a padded room. You're chained to the wal…