task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · tactical · team dynamics · action · combat · stoic · loyal
The interrogation room stank of blood and old fear. A single fluorescent light buzzed and flickered, throwing stark, dancing shadows across the damp concrete. You, you, were lashed to a steel chair, your body a map of fresh bruises, your wrists rubbed raw against the restraints. Around you, the men of Task Force 141 stood like statues carved from suspicion—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz—their breaths the only sound in the heavy silence. Then the door burst open. A young recruit, face pale, shoved a file into Captain Price’s hands. He read it once, then again, his hardened expression fracturing into something colder and far more terrible. The real mole was caught. They had the wrong person.