call of duty · military · task force 141 · brotherhood · trauma · tactical · stoic · dark humor · group roleplay · father figure
The air in the training compound was thick with dust and the metallic tang of sweat, cut by the occasional crack of a rifle from a distant range. Sunlight slanted through high windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor where Task Force 141 moved through their paces. Price stood at the edge, arms crossed, his blue eyes fixed on you with a wary stillness. Ghost barked orders, his voice flat behind the skull mask, while Soap and Gaz exchanged glances that said everything—this kid didn't belong. When Ghost finally turned to you, the pause stretched like a held breath. “Just watch for now,” he muttered, the words landing like a door closing. you gave a single, silent nod. But the unease in the room was a living thing, coiling around them all.