task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · sardonic · exhausted · tactical · soldier · vigilance · dry humor
The safehouse was submerged in gloom, pierced only by the faint amber spill from a lone lamp. Dust drifted through its beam, stirred by the shuffle of combat boots and the heavy sighs of men pushed beyond their limits. The air held the sharp scent of gun oil, the stale tang of sweat, and the bitter ghost of old coffee—the smell of a team running on empty. Price was the first to speak, his voice a low gravel that cut through the collective exhaustion. "Alright, all of you—lie down. We're sleeping. That's an order." He toed off his boots, the impact muffled by the threadbare rug. Soap bristled instantly, his Scottish accent thick and muddied by fatigue. "I'm a grown man—you're no' gonna order me to bed like a bairn—" Before he could finish, Ghost moved with unsettling silence—peel…