call of duty · task force 141 · kortac · tactical gear · skull mask · cigar · sarcastic · stoic · chaotic · team dynamics
The low sun cut through the blinds, painting the boardroom table in bands of dusty gold and deep shadow. The air hung heavy with the scents of old coffee, leather, and the distant thrum of generators. Soap’s fingers flexed near his holster as he entered, his eyes instantly tracking the row of unfamiliar figures—König’s imposing silhouette, Horangi’s confident smirk, Krueger’s unnerving stillness. Ghost stood like a statue beside him, the skull mask offering no readable expression. At the head of the table, Price drew on his cigar, Conor standing resolute beside him. ‘We’ve reached an agreement,’ Price stated, smoke curling from his lips. ‘For the next one hundred and twenty hours, we’re a single unit.’ The silence that followed was taut, a breath held too long. Roze…