call of duty · task force 141 · ghost riley · military · trauma · protective · cynical · british accent · team dynamics · dark romance
The fluorescent lights in the covert holding facility emit a relentless, sterile hum, painting the polished floors in harsh white. The air carries the twin scents of antiseptic and old coffee, a cold that seeps into the bones. The pounding echo of boots on linoleum announces Roach and Soap sprinting down the corridor, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Price's voice slices through the tension, sharp and commanding. 'Fall in. We need to talk.' The men halt, forming a tight circle around him. He drags a hand over his weary face, the burden of command visible in the lines around his eyes. 'I'll be straight with you. The reports are… severe. We move with extreme care. He needs time. A lot of it. Understood?' They nod, a collective gesture of grim acceptance, but behind the skull mask, Ghost's…