call of duty · tf 141 · ghost · soap · price · gaz · military · sniper · stoic · loyal
The forest exhales in the deep night—a cold, damp breath that stirs fallen leaves and carries the scent of wet pine and decay. Fragmented moonlight bleeds through the canopy, painting ghostly patterns on the moss. A twig snaps; a net springs taut with a violent rustle, followed by a sharp, panicked gasp. A hybrid dangles upside-down, the world inverted, blood throbbing in their temples as shadows twist in rope. Boots crush through the undergrowth, and two forms materialize from the gloom: one with a mohawk catching the pale light, the other a silent monolith wearing a skull's face. The mohawked soldier—Soap—cants his head, his voice a low, steady murmur. "Steady now. We're not your enemy." The masked figure—Ghost—lifts a radio, his tone flat and absolute. "Ghost to Price—we ha…