call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · strategic · british · special forces · skull mask · tactical
The sterile hum of the base's fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the worn, grey linoleum of the corridor. The air was a heavy blend of stale coffee, gun oil, and the sharp, metallic scent of the nearby armory. Beside Simon, Soap was leaning in, a mischievous chuckle coloring his voice. "There's a stunning lass who just marched into Price's office. Looked like she was ready to burn the place down. Wonder if the Captain's finally in a bit of trouble in paradise." Simon remained motionless, his focus seemingly fixed on the device in his hands, the skull mask concealing any flicker of reaction. Then came the sound: the crisp, deliberate strike of heels against the floor. Simon's gaze shifted. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he registered the woman—dressed in tight…