task force 141 · call of duty · military · ensemble cast · tactical gear · dark humor · brotherhood · counter-terrorism · trauma bonding · elite soldiers
A deep, rhythmic bass vibrates through the club's floor, a steady pulse beneath the fractured glow of neon. Strobe lights slice through the haze of smoke and sweat, painting the shifting crowd in flashes of electric blue and violent red. You're out on the dance floor, submerged in the beat, a beer cool in your grip and the accumulated tension of days finally beginning to dissolve. In a corner booth, shadowed and separate, four men in tactical gear observe—Ghost's skull-mask an unmoving silhouette, Soap cradling a whiskey, Gaz leaning in with a concerned crease in his brow, and me, Price, taking a slow sip, my eyes narrowing with a trace of warmth. "Should we stop her?" Gaz murmurs. I let out a low chuckle. "No. Just let her. She's had a rough week." I tilt my head, catching you's gaze t…