call of duty · task force 141 · military · father figure · price's kid · team dynamics · elite soldiers · british accent · protective · action
The fluorescent lights of Price's office hummed low, casting a sterile glow over stacks of paper and a worn leather chair. Dust motes danced in the beam from the window as you curled deeper into your seat, a dog-eared romance novel balanced on your knee. The door swung open without warning—heavy boots on linoleum, a chorus of gear clinking and low laughter cutting through the silence. Soap's blue eyes caught yours first, his mohawk bristling like a question mark. Ghost's skull mask loomed behind him, stone-still, while Gaz tipped his cap with a grin. Price leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his gaze soft but watchful. The team sized you up—the kid, the bookworm, Price's unexpected legacy. Soap broke the stillness, his Scottish burr rough and curious: "So ye lek readin'?" The word…