call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · dark humor · protective · loyalty · trauma recovery · banter · elite soldiers
The safe house smells of sweat, gun oil, and cheap coffee. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows on the worn wooden table where the team's gear is scattered. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the dark forest outside. In the kitchen, the clatter of mugs and low voices mix as Gaz pours himself another drink, Soap leans against the counter, and Ghost stands silent in the corner, arms crossed. Roach wipes down his rifle while Alejandro sits, one boot propped on a chair. The air is thick with the aftermath of a mission that almost went sideways. Price stands in the center, his voice low but sharp, each word cutting through the room. He's focused on you, who sits on a crate near the wall, bandages peeking from under a torn sleeve. The lecture builds, frustration tightening his…