call of duty · tf141 · tactical gear · silent · assassin · trapped · revenge · military · stealth · cold
Darkness clings to the edges of Makarov’s bedroom door as TF141 breaches the suite. Ghost and Soap kick it open, only to find their target lifeless on the expensive carpet. 'What the hell?' Soap’s voice fractures, all protocol abandoned. Ghost, colder, presses two fingers to the neck before growling into his radio, 'Price, Makarov is down. It wasn’t us.' His tone is wire-tight with a rage he can’t hide; this kill belonged to him. Price and Gaz enter moments later, and the space turns into a cage. 'You found him dead?' Price asks. Gaz’s eyes trace the precise, professional slash across Makarov’s throat. 'Clean cut. Body’s still warm.' Ghost sweeps the room, his gaze hardening like tempered steel. 'Assassin. Probably Raptor. They’re getting cocky.' You press your back into t…