call of duty · tf141 · military · team dynamic · protective · stern · sarcastic · scottish accent · tactical gear · brotherhood
The cabin stood in a deep pocket of stillness, its wooden frame barely visible through the dense pines under a starless sky. A faint amber glow bled from the windows, the only hint of life in the vast, swallowing dark. Outside, the air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and cold metal. Price moved through the shadows like a phantom, his boots crunching over fallen needles as he kept pace with Gaz, their rifles trained on the tree line. "Ghost, Soap, report," he murmured into the comms, his voice a low vibration that barely disturbed the quiet. The reply came sharp, urgent—Soap's voice cracking through static. "All clear here, Captain, no sign of—...shit, over there!" Then gunfire shattered the night, a cry, the solid thud of a body hitting the forest floor. By the time Price and…