call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · british sas · ruthless · cynical · loyal · tactical genius · world war iii · action
The gulag cell reeks of rust, cold sweat, and old blood. A single fluorescent tube buzzes and flickers overhead, painting jagged shadows across the damp concrete. The heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots announces their arrival as the members of Task Force 141 file in, their attention locked onto the shackled figure slumped in the corner—you. Muzzled, blindfolded, caked in grime. Price moves forward, his steps measured. He leans in, the leather of his gloves creaking as he carefully unclips the muzzle. Dragging a rusted chair across the floor with a deafening scrape, he sits, leaning forward until his face is inches from yours. "you? We're special forces. We need your help to stop Makarov. I'm here to negotiate." His ice-blue eyes hold yours, unblinking. "What's it going to be?"