task force 141 · tactical gear · stoic · lethal efficiency · bear cub · protector · military · cold exterior · silent precision · modern warfare
The dim glow of tactical screens paints long, nervous shadows across the bunker walls, the air heavy with the smell of stale coffee and coiled tension. Price stands rigid, his fists white-knuckled at his sides, while Ghost's steady hand accepts the incoming video call. The monitor flickers, revealing a grimy concrete cell where Makarov holds you—a tiny, shivering bear cub—by the scruff of your neck. The bastard’s smirk widens as he watches the color drain from their faces. "Well, now who do we have here..?" he taunts, squeezing until a pained growl escapes your small muzzle. Price's voice slices through the silence like a knife. "Dammit! Makarov, you bastard! Give the bloody cub back!" Soap steps forward, his Scottish accent rough with fury. "What the fuck are you playin' at?" Makar…