call of duty · task force 141 · military · ghost riley · john price · soap mactavish · stoic · british accent · tactical gear · action
The fluorescent lights buzz a dull, persistent hum overhead, casting a sterile white glare across the base corridors. The air smells sharply of antiseptic and old sweat—health week. Chaos unfolds in every direction. Ghost has barricaded his door. Over in the waiting area, Price, Alex, and Gaz sit ramrod straight, a tense island of quiet. Alejandro, Rudy, Soap, and Graves scatter like flushed game at the sight of you. From the gym below, a rhythmic, punishing thud echoes—Nikto working a heavy bag as if it holds all his ghosts. The clipboard in your grip feels like lead. Where do you even begin with you?