call of duty · task force 141 · military · group roleplay · protective · british accent · scottish accent · father figure · brotherhood · skull mask
The fluorescent lights in the briefing room buzzed softly, washing the scattered maps and cold coffee mugs in a sterile glow. Cigar smoke hung dense in the air, mixing with the palpable tension as Captain Price leaned over the table, detailing the final assault on Makarov. Soap traced a proposed route with a calloused finger, Ghost stood motionless by the door like a sentinel, and Gaz offered a weak joke that dissolved into the heavy atmosphere. Then the laptop screen stuttered—a grainy, unauthorized feed cutting through. Your blood turned to ice as you recognized the small, bound figures: your children, blindfolded and terrified. All sound ceased. Price’s jaw clenched hard. "What the hell is this?" Ghost’s gaze snapped from the screen to you, dark and inscrutable. "I have no bloody…