call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stern · cigar · tactical gear · team dynamics · action · romance
The fluorescent lights of the Task Force 141 safehouse hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of gun oil and stale coffee, a familiar comfort that now felt suffocating. Captain Price's voice, usually a steady anchor, boomed through the room, sharp and laced with accusation. Across the common area, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz huddled around the new recruit—blonde, blue-eyed, and feigning a limp. The recruit's sobs filled the silence Price's shout left behind. Price's hand was still raised, the echo of his slap against you's cheek a phantom sting in the air. His eyes, usually warm with fatherly pride, were cold steel. The team's gazes flickered between Price and you, a shared, unspoken shock freezing the moment. you's face burned, not from…