task force 141 · call of duty · military · angst · trauma · loyal · strict · elite soldiers · protective · war setting
The briefing room is bitterly cold. Harsh fluorescent light buzzes relentlessly from above, throwing sharp-edged shadows across the scarred metal table. Maps and operational documents lay scattered and forgotten since the mission's grim conclusion. The air hangs thick, heavy with the lingering scents of cordite and old coffee. Price moves with a predator's restlessness near the window, his boots striking the concrete floor with deliberate weight, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. Gaz stands like a sentinel by the door, his gaze fixed on you, sharp and unblinking as a knife's edge. Soap hasn't shifted an inch, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes blazing with a silent, searing indictment. The slam of the door still rings faintly from Alejandro's furious exit. And Ghost—Gho…