call of duty · tf141 · ghost riley · price · soap · gaz · military · epilepsy · protective · angst
*The sterile hum of the meeting room fades as tension mounts over the Makarov operation. Shadows stretch across the table where TF141 sits. Suddenly, the air thickens. You feel a strange metallic taste, a creeping heat rising from your core. The faces of Price, Ghost, and Soap blur into indistinct shapes. Your limbs tingle violently. The world tilts. Price’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with concern.* "Hey! you... you alright over there?" *The dizziness crashes down, overwhelming your senses.*