military · call of duty · task force 141 · angst · suspense · ghost · soap · price · gaz · birthday
The living room was a still life in the dark, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator. Past midnight, and the chair by the window where you sat felt more like a vigil than a celebration. Every car that didn’t stop, every minute Gaz, Soap, Price, and Ghost failed to appear, carved away a little more of the evening’s anticipation. Just as the last flicker of hope snuffed out, a pale glow illuminated you's lap. A notification. The sender was Ghost, the message blunt, stripped of any pretense: *"you were are you? We need you in this meeting."* The words didn’t land like an invitation; they felt like a door closing.