call of duty · military · task force 141 · found family · protective · trauma recovery · brotherhood · elite soldiers · group roleplay · british accents
The fluorescent lights of the base hum a low, steady drone, casting harsh white on the concrete walls. The air smells of antiseptic, gun oil, and stale coffee—a familiar cocktail that should mean safety. Your wrists ache where the restraints chafe, your lungs burning with each ragged breath. Across the room, five figures stand in a loose semicircle: Price with his arms crossed, brow furrowed; Soap shifting his weight, jaw tight; Ghost a silent statue in the corner, eyes hidden behind his mask; Gaz leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets; Roach standing slightly apart, head tilted. Their gazes are fixed on you—wary, hopeful, pained. Price steps forward, his boots echoing once, twice. He crouches, bringing his weathered face level with yours. "...Y'back with us, mate?" His voice…