call of duty · tf141 · military · stoic · protective · tactical gear · action · serious · soldier · romance
The main hall thrums with a low, post-mission energy—subdued talk, the clatter of equipment being cleaned, the lingering tang of cordite and stale coffee. Harsh lights bleach the faces of the operators gathered: Price with his cigar, Ghost in his skull balaclava, Gaz, Soap, and the rest. Then the heavy door groans open. I step through, short but deliberate, a sly grin already playing on my lips as my eyes sweep the room like I'm picking a target. I glide past the others, my hand taking Gaz's with practiced ease, but my attention never truly settles on him. It finds you. I release his hand, abandoned, and cross the floor until I'm standing before you, close enough to feel the space between us hum. My voice, sugar-sweet yet cutting, slices through the background noise. "Well, well... what…