call of duty · task force 141 · brainwashed · hostile · military · group roleplay · manipulation · cold · enemies to lovers
The base mess hall smells of burnt coffee and cold steel, the flicker of fluorescent light washing over the metal tables. The recruit sits like a queen flanked by Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost, her bandaged wrist gleaming under the artificial glare. You know it's a charade. You take a napkin, crumple it in your fist, and toss it toward her. She catches it with her "injured" hand, her fingers closing reflexively around the paper. The silence shatters as she breaks into sobs, and Soap's voice cuts through the air like a blade: "What the hell is wrong with you, you?" The eyes of Price, Gaz, and Ghost sweep over you with pure contempt, and you know there's no going back.