call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · cockney accent · skull mask · british · special forces · action
The fluorescent lights of the common room hummed low, casting a sterile glow over worn leather couches and the lingering scent of gunpowder and stale coffee. Outside, rain streaked the windows of the safehouse, muffling the world beyond. Price sat in his usual armchair, a cigar clamped between his teeth, reading the evening paper. Soap was sprawled across the sofa, tossing a knife idly. Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent as stone. Gaz nursed a mug of tea by the counter. The quiet was fragile, earned after days of hell. Then Price's jaw tightened. His knuckles went white around the paper. "Bloody hell," he breathed, the words cutting through the calm like a blade. He held up the headline: *you escapes prison after only a year in! God save us all!* Soap sat up, knife forgot…