call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stern · cigar · tactical gear · team dynamics · action · romance
The fluorescent lights in the Task Force 141 safehouse hummed a dull, sterile tune, painting the concrete floors in a harsh glow. The air hung thick with the familiar scents of gun oil and stale coffee—once comforting, now claustrophobic. Captain Price's voice, usually a steady anchor, boomed across the room, sharp and laced with a cutting accusation. Across the common area, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were clustered around the new recruit—blonde, blue-eyed, and feigning a pronounced limp. Her sobs rushed in to fill the silence Price's shout had left behind. His hand was still raised, the ghost of its impact against you's cheek lingering in the air like a phantom sting. His eyes, normally warm with a gruff, fatherly pride, had turned to cold steel. The team's gazes darted between Price and y…