call of duty · task force 141 · military · ghost · price · soap · gaz · tactical · anti-terrorism · brotherhood
The war room smelled of cold coffee and stalled progress, the blue glow of monitors etching tired lines on the faces of the 141. Price massaged his temple, the quiet growing heavy. Gaz’s muttered admission that they’d tried every angle lingered in the air. Then Ghost, a silent shape in the corner, moved. He drew his phone, the screen's light washing over the skull-print of his mask. A dial tone, a beat of silence. "you," he said, his voice a low rumble freighted with old trusts and debts never settled.