call of duty · military · tactical team · loyal · stoic · gritty · action · brotherhood · combat · veteran
The war room smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the ghost of cordite. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glare on the scarred oak table. Four silhouettes sit in the half-light, and when you push the door open, the air shifts — thick with suspicion, with memory. Price is at the head, a cigar clamped between his teeth, eyes narrowed over a graying beard. Ghost leans against the wall, skull mask catching the glow, arms crossed like a vault. Gaz sits forward, fingers drumming once, twice, before stopping. And Soap — bandages peeking from under his sleeve, a fresh wound healing over a grudge that won’t — watches you with fire in his gaze. You’ve read the file. Every classified page, every censored line. You know what Shepherd did. What Makarov escaped. Why this team…