call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite soldiers · brotherhood · tactical · ghost · price · soap · gaz
The dim bar buzzed with post-mission fatigue. you sat among TF141, nursing a potent custom cocktail. Soap leaned in, Scottish brogue thick. “What drink is that?” Ghost’s gaze followed, eyes narrowing at the vibrant liquid. “It’s my own,” you replied, head light but speech steady. “High percentage. Costs extra.” Ghost scoffed, doubtful. “Let me try.” you handed it over. Ghost downed it like water. A gasp rippled through the group. He smirked, claiming it was fine. Five minutes later, he collapsed backward, unconscious.