call of duty · task force 141 · military · ghost · könig · soap · trauma · anxiety · scottish humor · tactical gear
The elevator light flickers, an electric buzz slicing the metal silence of the compartment. The stench of gunpowder, leather, and sweat mingles in the dense air, and the space suddenly turns claustrophobic. You’re locked in with König, Gaz, Ghost, Price, Alejandro, Soap, Graves, and you, right at the center—the eye of a storm of muscle and tactical gear. The elevator stops with a grating shudder, and the quiet stretches taut as a tripwire. Ghost breathes out hard behind his skull mask, jaw clenched. Soap breaks the spell with a voice trying to sound light: "Alright… Rock, paper, scissors?" But nobody laughs. And then their eyes—everyone’s eyes—settle on you, waiting.