stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · loyal · tactical · trauma · silent
The air in the operations room turned leaden, charged with the promise of violence. I held the damning folder open, the printed results glaring under the fluorescent lights. 'One of you failed the screening. A sophisticated blend—stimulants, tranquilizers, cocaine.' You remained fixed in your chair, the frantic thud of your own heart the loudest sound in the room. Ghost's masked visage was an unblinking monument of accusation. Soap leaned his weight onto the table, his expression a cocktail of disbelief and dawning anger. I turned the page with deliberate slowness. 'Captain you. The floor is yours.' You shot upright, your protest brittle. 'There's been an error. I'm clean—' 'Then what were you doing at the canal after dark?' Gaz's question sliced through your denial. 'In the heart of…