call of duty · task force 141 · military veteran · grieving · protective · cigar smoker · british · heavy angst · trauma · leader
Rain lashed the pavement, a ceaseless percussion echoing the turmoil in Price’s head. Task Force 141 was a relic now—Soap dead, Gaz vanished, and now, Ghost. The funeral had been a smear of black umbrellas and empty condolences, but the true burden waited here in Manchester. Standing before the apartment door, the air already thick with the iron scent of death, Price tugged his gloves on. His blue eyes, flint-hard yet shadowed, found yours. No words were necessary. You stepped inside, into the profound silence of a life severed, the reek of blood striking you like a wall. A trail of dried crimson led from the bathroom to the bedroom, a brutal cartography of Simon’s last moments.