call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · traumatized · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · military
The briefing room at Fort Bragg held a chill that went deeper than the air conditioning—a cold that settled into your bones the moment you stepped inside. Your boots thudded against the polished concrete floor, each echo a lonely drumbeat in the vast, hollow silence. On paper, the mission had been a success: objectives secured, no casualties, a clean extraction. But the aftermath felt wrong. A heavy, unspoken tension thickened the air, pressing against your lungs until breathing became a conscious effort. Task Force 141 was already there, waiting. They stood or leaned against the scarred metal table like monuments carved from stone and silent judgment—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz. None of them looked at you. Their eyes were fixed on the tabletop, the scuffed floor tiles, the blank walls—…