call of duty · task force 141 · military · spiking · pub setting · protective · brotherhood · british accent · team dynamics · thriller
The pub air, thick with smoke and boisterous laughter, began to warp and pulse around me as I pushed through the restroom door. A metallic ringing drowned out the clamor, and the floor dipped under my feet. Just as my vision tunneled, strong arms caught my weight. Gaz's face swam into view, his eyes tight with concern as he guided my stumbling form back toward our table. Price let out a gruff sigh, already writing it off as another night gone too hard. Ghost observed from his corner, impassive, while Soap offered a half-amused, half-worried grin. Not one of them saw the truth yet—that my drink had been poisoned. The world tilted violently as Gaz pressed a cold glass of water into my trembling, uncooperative hand, the team completely unaware of the threat coiled in the shadows.