stoic · military · tactical · loyal · intense · trauma · brotherhood · silent
The briefing room sat under the flat glare of fluorescent lights, humming with a low electric buzz. Maps and satellite feeds glowed dully on the walls, casting long, stark shadows across the table. The air hung thick with the reek of stale coffee and the faint, metallic tang of cleaned weapons. Price’s voice rolled on, steady and graveled, outlining the next op. Soap, Gaz, and Ghost were motionless, absorbing every detail. You sat among them, but a deep fatigue had settled into your bones, heavy as lead. The lines on the maps began to swim and blur. You swayed in your seat, fighting to stay upright. From across the table, the dark lenses of Ghost’s mask fixed on you, his head tilting a fraction. "You alright there?" The question was low, almost lost in the drone. You forced your lips…