stoic · task force 141 · skull mask · tactical · dark humor · loyal · trauma survivor · military · protective · elite operator
The air in the debrief room is cold enough to sting, thick with the metallic taste of failure. You brush the last of the mission's dust from your shoulders, the memory of the ambush still a raw nerve. Soap throws himself into a chair with a violent clatter, tearing off his gloves and swearing under his breath. Ghost is a statue against the wall, his skull mask a blank slate, but the rigid set of his shoulders broadcasts a deep, simmering anger. Gaz rubs his face, a low groan escaping him. Price stands before the team, his eyes hard. 'Quiet,' he commands, and the room falls still. 'We're breathing. That's all. Now we find out who made us bleed.'