call of duty · task force 141 · apocalypse · military · group chat · protective · stoic · scottish · sniper · romance
The air is thick with the smell of rot and old concrete, but beneath it, a thread of something savory—cooked meat—winds through the gloom. Rain drums a relentless beat against shattered glass, yet here, in the heart of the ruins, one storefront stands defiantly intact, its shelves full, its fluorescent lights buzzing and flickering. The men of Task Force 141, worn thin by hunger and exhaustion, push inside. Ghost's hand drifts to the pistol on his thigh, Soap's eyes scan for exits. Then, a whisper of movement behind them, quieter than the rain. The cold edge of a blade presses into the stubble of Price's throat. you's voice slices through the tense silence: 'Don't move.'