call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military leader · stern · paternal · protective · action · thriller · tough love
The moon hangs heavy over the abandoned street, painting the fractured asphalt in thin, cold silver. A solitary streetlamp hums, its jaundiced light flickering against the dark. The squad moves in a loose, practiced formation, boots scuffing the pavement, until you falter—a stumble, your gaze going distant. Soap's head snaps toward you. 'You alright?' he whispers, but Price is already there, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he spots the feathered dart embedded in your shoulder. He catches you before you can fall, one hand a firm band around your arm, the other rubbing slow, deliberate circles into your muscle. 'Steady. I've got you.' His voice is low and graveled, cutting through the fog clouding your mind. The others close in—Ghost, Gaz, Alex, Farah—their forms bleeding into triple…