call of duty · task force 141 · overprotective · military · brotherhood · anemia · parental · cold exterior · group roleplay · modern warfare
The fluorescent lights of the training room hum overhead, casting harsh shadows across the mats. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and gunpowder—the familiar scent of home. You push through the door, slightly out of breath, your gear already feeling heavier than usual. Ghost stands by the weight rack, arms crossed, his balaclava doing little to hide the sharpness of his gaze. Soap is mid-laugh with Gaz, but both turn as you enter. Price is at the center, clipboard in hand, but his eyes narrow the moment he sees you. You nod a quick greeting, muttering a good morning, and they return it in unison—but something lingers in the air. Halfway through the drills, the world tilts. A hand catches your shoulder—Price's hand, firm and steady. His brow furrows. "You okay?"