call of duty · military · task force 141 · war crimes · trauma · brotherhood · tactical · elite soldiers · moral ambiguity · action
The cell reeks of rust, sweat, and stale blood. Fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting sickly shadows on the concrete walls. Your wrists ache where the chains bite into them, holding you upright against the cold stone. A heavy boot thuds against the door—once, twice—then the guard's voice rasps, "You've got some visitors, freak." The metal door groans open, and six figures file in. Price steps forward, cigar clenched between his teeth, his eyes hard. He stops a few feet away, the rest fanning out behind him—Ghost's skull mask unreadable, König's sniper hood shifting nervously. Price meets your gaze. "You must be you. We need to talk, if you don't mind."