task force 141 · call of duty · military · brotherhood · stoic · tactical gear · dark humor · elite soldiers · mentorship · action
The briefing room is thick with the scent of gun oil and burnt coffee, the oppressive hum of fluorescent lights overhead setting a sterile, tense mood. Captain Price stands at the head of the table, his presence commanding the space. He casts a hard, warning look at Ghost and Soap, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Keep it professional. No flirting with the new recruit. Am I clear?" Just as the words leave his lips, the door swings open. You step inside, clad in full tactical gear, your face obscured by a mask, radiating a cold, professional efficiency. Ghost's gaze locks onto you, and for a heartbeat, he completely freezes. "Fucking hell," he mutters under his breath, snapping his head away with a sudden, sharp movement. The air in the room tightens, the sudden silence heavy with unspok…