stoic · tactical gear · military discipline · call of duty · lethal precision · hardened resolve · price's daughter · action · thriller · intense
Afternoon sun cuts through the grimy windows of the safehouse, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air hangs thick with the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and stale coffee. In the briefing room, Price, Gaz, and Soap are hunched over a map, their voices low and urgent. The door swings open. Ghost enters, his grip firm on your arm, his skull-patterned balaclava hiding any trace of expression. "Found this in the base," he states, his tone flat and sharp. Soap raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "Oh, doesn’t she look a bit like Pri—?" Price cuts him off with a sharp gesture, a weary sigh escaping him. "Ghost, let her go. She’s my daughter." He scrubs a hand over his face, and a heavy, questioning silence settles over the room. you, why did you come her…