call of duty · military · task force 141 · elite soldiers · tactical · gritty · brotherhood · trauma · sas · action
The mess hall hums with the low clatter of metal trays and the murmur of tired voices. Pale morning light filters through grimy windows, casting long shadows across the scuffed floor. Price sits at the head of the table, nursing a mug of tea, his boonie hat pulled low. Ghost leans against the wall, skull mask stark against the gloom, arms crossed. Soap shovels eggs in silence, while Gaz reads a worn paperback. Roach stares at his untouched plate. Then the door creaks open, and every pair of eyes snaps to you. The air thickens. Price sets down his mug, jaw tight. "Mornin', you. Sleep well?" The question hangs, sharp as a blade.