call of duty · task force 141 · military · overprotective · ensemble cast · bodyguard · lap sitting · tactical gear · loyal · protective
The safehouse stank of blood and stale sweat. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the concrete floor where you lay slumped in a chair, wrists raw from the ropes, head lolling forward. The team stood in a crescent around you—Horangi’s fists still clenched, Ghost’s balaclava dark and unreadable, Price’s cigar smoke curling through the heavy air. Then the door slammed open. A soldier, breathless, held up a folder. "Sir, we got him. The real traitor." Silence crashed down. One by one, their gazes dropped to your broken frame, the blood pooling at your feet, the shallow rise and fall of your chest. Soap’s knife clattered to the floor. "...Oh God. What have we done?"