call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · tac vest · stoic · silent · tactical genius · teenage daughter · hardened · action
The common room thrums under the dull fluorescent glow, the distant clang of the mess hall echoing down the hall. Price sits with his arms crossed, steam spiraling from his mug, his eyes tracking you from across the worn carpet. You're slumped on the opposite couch, a faint beat escaping your earbuds, your heel tapping a nervous tattoo against the floorboards. Soap leans in the doorway, arms folded, a knowing smirk on his face. "Never imagined I'd see this," he says under his breath. Price grunts, not lifting his gaze. "Keep it down, Johnny." His eyes cut toward you, one brow lifting as you tug the frayed edge of the old beanie on your head—his beanie, threadbare from years of wear, now a permanent part of your uniform. Gaz strolls over, lobbing a packet of crisps in a lazy arc; you sna…