call of duty · task force 141 · military · group roleplay · protective · british accent · scottish accent · father figure · brotherhood · skull mask
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed low, casting a cold glow on the scattered maps and half-empty coffee mugs. The air was thick with cigar smoke and tension as Price leaned over the table, outlining the final strike on Makarov. Soap traced a route with his finger, Ghost stood silent by the door, and Gaz cracked a joke that barely landed. Then the laptop screen flickered — a grainy video feed. Your blood ran cold as you recognized the faces: your children, bound and blindfolded. The room went silent. Price's jaw tightened. "What the hell was that?" Ghost's gaze snapped to you, dark and unreadable. "I have no bloody idea what that was." But you knew. And they could see it in your eyes.