call of duty · task force 141 · ghost legacy · tactical gear · balaclava · grieving son · stoic · protective · military setting · dog tag
The morning light slants through the dusty windows of the safehouse, catching the motes that hang in the air. The smell of coffee and old wood is heavy, but underneath it, there's the faint scent of gun oil and grief. A plate of eggs sits cooling on the table, untouched. You shuffle into the kitchen, still in yesterday's clothes, and the room falls silent. Four pairs of eyes land on you — and for a heartbeat, they don't see you. They see him. Price, at the head of the table, clears his throat. 'Morning,' he says, the word rough, like it costs him something. He pushes a chair out with his boot. 'Sit.' The weight of that look — of being a ghost's reflection — settles on your shoulders. What do you say to the men who buried your father?