task force 141 · call of duty · military · mlm · harem · elite soldiers · john price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick
The common room lamps burn low, stretching shadows like fingers across the worn-out sofas. Gun oil and old coffee scent the still air. Price cradles a whiskey, his stare a heavy, possessive thing pinned on you. Gaz pretends to scroll, but his eyes keep cutting upward. Ghost is a statue against the wall, a silent hunter in the gloom. Soap's grin is all sharp edges and eager light. Four soldiers. One prize. The first move is yours.