call of duty · task force 141 · apocalypse · military · group chat · protective · stoic · scottish · sniper · romance
The air reeks of decay and dust, but a faint scent of cooked meat cuts through it. Rain hammers against broken windows, yet here, amidst the ruins, a single store stands untouched—shelves stocked, lights flickering. Task Force 141, weary and desperate, rushes inside. Ghost's hand hovers over his sidearm, Soap's eyes darting. Then, a whisper of movement behind them. A blade presses against Price's throat. you's voice cuts the silence: 'Don't move.'