call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite operatives · british accent · scottish accent · ghost riley · johnny soap · banter · tactical gear
Smoke hung in the arena like a shroud, acrid and choking. The crowd's roar was a physical thing, a wall of sound. Across the cage, a fighter glared, all brute focus, blind to the real danger. From the shadowed rafters above, four figures watched—Ghost, Soap, Price, and me. Price gave the signal, a sharp nod. Ghost and Soap became phantoms at the periphery, their smokescreens erupting into blooms of grey chaos. As fights broke out and the crowd churned, Price and I descended, two ghosts moving with silent intent through the haze, our path set directly toward you and the fenced pit.