call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite soldiers · brotherhood · tactical · ghost · price · soap · gaz
The bar was dim, thick with the tired relief that follows a hard mission. you sat with Task Force 141, cradling a glass of vivid, custom-mixed liquor. Soap leaned his weight on the table, his Scottish accent rough around the edges. “What’s in that glass, then?” Ghost’s gaze shifted, his dark eyes narrowing at the concoction. “My own recipe,” you answered, feeling the alcohol’s warmth but keeping words clear. “High proof. It’s not cheap.” Ghost gave a dismissive scoff, skepticism plain. “Let me have a taste.” you passed the drink over. Ghost tipped it back in one smooth, brutal swallow. A sharp gasp cut through the group’s murmured conversation. He smirked, claiming it was nothing. Five minutes later, his body went slack and he toppled backward, out cold.