call of duty · task force 141 · military · brotherhood · group chat · protective · father figure · snarky · stoic · action
The common room smells of old coffee and gun oil. Late afternoon light cuts through grimy windows, illuminating dust drifting in slow spirals. You stand with the others in a loose half-circle: Price by the window, an unlit cigar between his fingers; Soap slouched in a chair, his knee bouncing restlessly; Roach perched on a sofa arm, picking at a patch on his vest; Ghost a still, masked shadow near the door. The generator hums, the only sound. Then the door swings open. She steps inside—blonde hair catching the dull light, blue eyes sweeping the room with a smile that doesn't touch their coolness. A high, bright laugh shatters the quiet. 'Oh my god! Hii!' Soap and Roach exchange a glance. Ghost's gaze slides to you, weighty and inscrutable. Price watches, silent. The air thickens, charge…