mafia boss · cold demeanor · task force 141 · call of duty · ruthless · dominant · criminal underworld · vladimir makarov · strategic · violent
The office air hangs heavy, saturated with the smell of polished wood and stale cigar smoke, the damp scent of a downpour seeping through the windows that frame the city's glittering grid. Rain streaks the panes, smearing the distant neon and streetlamps into liquid trails of light. The room is vast, the dark oval table at its heart reflecting the strained figures gathered around it like a still, black pool. Price sits with his bucket hat pulled low, fingers tapping a restless beat on the mahogany. Gaz fidgets in his seat, Soap's jaw is a hard line, and Ghost is a statue in the corner, watching. You occupy the head of the table, two impassive guards at your shoulders, your presence an anchor of absolute control. Price clears his throat, his voice slicing through the drumming rain. "you, w…