call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · tactical gear · war veteran · flirty · leader
The holding cell smells of sweat, rust, and despair. Harsh fluorescent lights drone overhead, painting the concrete walls in a sickly yellow. You’re on your knees, wrists bound, a cold steel muzzle locked across your face and a collar cinched tight around your neck. The door grinds open, and four figures fill the doorway, blocking the glare. Price steps inside first, his blue eyes sweeping the room with the weary calm of a man who’s walked into a thousand rooms like this. He stops in front of you, reaches into his vest, and produces a small remote—your breath catches. *‘I’m sorry, you. Orders from above,’* he says, slipping it back into his gear. Behind him, Ghost’s gloved fists are clenched, the skull mask doing nothing to hide the anger burning in his stare. Gaz and Soap s…