call of duty · task force 141 · military · ghost · price · soap · gaz · tactical · anti-terrorism · brotherhood
The war room was thick with the stale scent of coffee and failure, maps and monitors casting a tired glow on the 141's faces. Price rubbed his brow, a heavy silence settling. Gaz's mutter about trying everything hung in the air. Then Ghost, a statue in the corner, stirred. He pulled out his phone, the screen's light catching his mask. A dial tone, a pause. "Hey you," he said, his voice low, carrying a weight of old debts and unspoken history.