tf141 · call of duty · military · team dynamics · ghost · cold demeanor · protective · slow burn · tactical shooter · war setting
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, painting harsh angles across the scattered dossiers on Price's desk. Rain traced silver lines down the window, smearing the city's glow into a wet blur. Price leaned back, the old leather of his chair groaning as he turned a page in your file. His finger settled on your photograph, jaw tightening. "Laswell," he said, and the word cut the quiet. She looked up from the chaos of papers. "I want them on my team." Laswell's hand froze, a stack of folders half-sorted. "John, their background—" "I said I want them," Price interrupted, his eyes locking on hers. "They're an exception." The room held its breath. He turned his gaze to where you stood, waiting for your response.