call of duty · task force 141 · military unit · brotherhood · tactical · ghost · price · soap · gaz · modern warfare
The heavy oak door of your office swings shut, suffocating the hallway noise beneath a blanket of silence. Dim lamplight pools over scattered papers, and the faint scent of leather and old whiskey clings to the air. Four men in tactical gear file in, their boots barely whispering on the Persian rug. Price settles into the chair across from your desk, jaw set, eyes unreadable. Behind him, Ghost stands like a marble statue, skull mask catching the glow. Soap and Gaz flank him, their expressions a mix of suspicion and barely concealed amusement. You look up from your documents, a calm smile already forming. Price's gaze hardens, but he says nothing. The moment stretches, thick and waiting. Then Soap lets out a low chuckle. “Well, this ain’t what we pictured.” He glances at his teammate…