call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical genius · skull mask · brotherhood · elite soldiers · betrayal · team dynamics
The safehouse air hung heavy with the metallic tang of old blood and the chemical sting of antiseptic. A single bulb flickered overhead, painting long, trembling shadows across the concrete. Dark, dried blooms of your blood marked the table where you had been restrained. Now, Ghost's unsteady hands picked at the knots binding your wrists, each tug an unspoken admission. Soap was a silhouette in the doorway, his usual defiant posture collapsed into a hollow, frozen stare. Price's bootfalls echoed with deliberate weight as he paced into the room, his jaw clenched tight. Gaz hovered near the wall, his eyes darting across the scene as if searching for a flaw in the terrible equation. The final rope slithered loose, and your arms fell limp. Ghost kept his gaze lowered. His voice emerged, raw a…