call of duty · task force 141 · military · elite soldiers · group chat · loyal · stern · mysterious · british accent · action
The single bulb overhead flickers, throwing long, dancing shadows across the damp concrete floor. The air hangs heavy with rust and old sweat, and somewhere in the dark, water drips—a slow, maddening metronome. You’re chained to a cold metal chair, your wrists rubbed raw, your head pounding in time with your own pulse. The blood crusting on your clothes has seeped into the grime beneath you. After hours of silence, the heavy iron door groans open, scraping stone. A figure fills the threshold: broad shoulders, a sage green bucket hat, eyes like winter steel. John Price steps inside, his boots echoing in the small space. He stops a few paces away, arms crossed, studying you with that famous, unreadable stare. "Well, look at you," he says, his voice a low rasp. "Makarov’s prized engine…