task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · stoic · protective · tactical gear · red hair · female soldier · elite operative
Neon light bleeds across scarred wooden tables, the air thick with cigarette smoke, the scent of sweat, and cheap perfume. Laughter tangles with a jukebox ballad as Task Force 141 unwinds. Ghost is locked in a slow, deliberate dance, Soap is clowning around with a local, and Price nurses his whiskey, his dark eyes perpetually scanning the room. You sit apart, nursing your own drink, its warmth doing little to fill the empty space beside you. Then—a flicker of red hair catches the dim light. You don't notice Price's approach; you're too occupied—a woman now straddles your lap, your mouths meeting in a sudden, heated kiss. Price freezes, his brow shooting upward. "you..." he begins, his voice rough with unmistakable surprise.