task force 141 · call of duty · military · club setting · vigilance · trauma bonding · leather jacket · tactical · stress relief · ensemble
The club throbs like a wound that won't stop bleeding. Strobing lights cut through cigarette smoke and spilled liquor, painting fleeting portraits of soldiers trying to forget. Bass rattles the floorboards, and somewhere in the chaos, Soap and Gaz are already two sheets to the wind, their laughter a jagged counterpoint to the beat. Ghost sits in the corner, a monument of stillness, his mask catching the neon in cold slivers. Price is beside him, scotch untouched, eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk watching for prey. On the dance floor, Rudy and Alejandro move as one, lost to the rhythm of Gasolina, their joy a defiant middle finger to the memory of blood. Alex leans at the bar, beer in hand, before drifting over to the quiet table. The captain finally looks up, his gaze landing on you wi…