call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · cia handler · strategic · maternal authority · elite operators · war drama · team dynamics
The dim fluorescent light in the safehouse corridor hummed a low, mournful note as Price, Gaz, and Ghost approached your office door. A single tear-stained paper lay crumpled on the floor just inside, the only sound a ragged, shaking breath. Through the crack, they saw you—face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling as you whispered to yourself over and over, "Bite tongue, deep breaths." The man who never cracked was breaking, and no one knew how to look away. Price's hand hovered, frozen, over the handle. "you…" he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The question hung in the air: what now?