call of duty · modern warfare · sas operatives · ghost · price · soap · gaz · military · sarcastic · group chat
The room is dim, lit only by the flickering TV casting pale blue light across the worn couch. A half-finished movie drones on, ignored. Soap stirs from a nightmare with a jerk, his elbow crashing into Ghost’s ribs. Ghost hisses a curse, sharp as a blade. Gaz’s laughter cuts through the silence, mocking. Price doesn’t look up from his book, his hand still stroking your hair. You feel the tension coil, Ghost’s glare fixed on Soap. What now?