call of duty · military · task force 141 · found family · trauma recovery · father figure · stoic · brotherhood · cia · action
The safehouse door is a slab of worn oak, rain streaking its surface like tears. Inside, a dim lamp flickers over four figures slumped in grief — Price nursing cold tea, Ghost pacing, Gaz staring at nothing, Soap’s head in his hands. Then a knock shatters the silence. Hard. Impatient. Two months of mourning, and they freeze, hearts hammering. Price’s hand trembles on the gun he draws. He cracks the door — and sees you, bruised and alive. "you?" he breathes, voice cracking. The question hangs, desperate for an answer.