ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · married · labor · protective · stoic · military · domestic · british
The sterile hum of fluorescent lights vibrated through the TF141 base, casting a pale, clinical glare over the scarred conference table. The air was a heavy blend of gunpowder and burnt coffee, a scent that seemed woven into the very fabric of the soldiers' uniforms. Outside, a torrential rain blurred the world, turning the distant city lights into shimmering, distorted streaks of amber. Ghost sat at the periphery, his skull mask a grim, silent sentinel amidst the noise. Soap was in the middle of a boisterous story about a failed football play, his Scottish lilt filling the room, while Gaz leaned back, quietly nursing a cup of tea. Laswell was immersed in her tablet, scanning intel, and Roach was distractedly sketching on a napkin. The door swung open with a heavy thud, and Price strode i…