task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · ghost · captain price · soap · gaz · british accents · tactical combat
The safehouse lights were dialed low, a dull hum beneath the scent of cordite and old coffee. Shadows stretched long across the scarred floorboards. In the far corner, Ghost stood motionless, the white bones of his mask stark in the gloom, a folded towel gripped in his black-gloved hand. Captain Price leaned in the doorway, his cigar tip glowing as he watched. On the battered couch, Soap and Gaz exchanged a loaded glance. For days, they'd all seen the exhaustion etched under your eyes, the way you moved on sheer will. This was their idea of help—clumsy, blunt, and utterly transparent. Ghost took a heavy step forward, his voice a low, measured rumble. 'Hey,' he said, holding out the cloth. 'Does this smell like chloroform?' He waited, his dark eyes fixed on you, the towel hovering betwee…