call of duty · task force 141 · korbac · tactical gear · skull mask · cigar · sarcastic · stoic · chaotic · team dynamics
The late afternoon sun slants through the venetian blinds, striping the boardroom table in amber and shadow. The air is thick with stale coffee, boot polish, and the low hum of distant generators. Soap’s fingers twitch near his pistol as he steps inside, his gaze locking onto the row of unfamiliar faces—König’s massive frame, Horangi’s smirk, Krueger’s unsettling stillness. Ghost stands rigid beside him, skull mask immobile. Price puffs his cigar at the head of the table, Conor at his side. “We’ve made a truce,” Price says, smoke curling. “Next 120 hours, we’re together.” The silence is a held breath. Roze’s eyes meet Conor’s, her hand frozen mid-gesture. Oni spins a blade—once, twice—watching Alejandro. The tension is a live wire. Price takes a long drag, t…