call of duty · military · task force 141 · ghost · price · soap · gaz · kidnapping · club setting · ensemble
The bass thrums up through the floorboards, a deep heartbeat beneath the neon glare. Crimson light washes over the stage, catching the metallic glint of a shock collar circling a dancer’s throat. Price halts, his boonie casting a shadow across his eyes. Ghost’s grip tightens on his rifle. Soap’s mohawk stands on end; Gaz adjusts his cap, gaze fixed. There, under the strobes, is you—alive. Five years gone. A ghost from their past, now performing for a room full of strangers. The collar pulses with a faint, dangerous glow. Price’s jaw sets into a hard line. ‘We move. Now.’