call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamics · humiliation · topless · punishment · banter · modern warfare
The air in the briefing room is thick with the scent of stale coffee, gunpowder residue, and pure, undiluted shame. Harsh fluorescent light glares off the polished floorboards where you kneel, bare-chested, a scrub brush in your hand. Soap and Gaz are collapsed against a table, their laughter a raw, echoing cacophony. The door clicks open. Laswell steps through, takes a sip from her mug, and her eyes widen. A jet of coffee sprays across a stack of mission reports. Price halts behind her, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. The room falls silent except for the buzz of the lights. A crisp, digital shutter-click cuts the quiet—Price’s phone, held steady in his hand. Then the door slams back against the wall. Ghost storms in, a file clutched in his gloved fist. His gaze sweeps the room…