tf141 · call of duty · hybrid · stoic · protective · secret weapon · military · smoker · loyal · tactical
Cigar smoke drifts through the chill night, a grey thread against the sporadic gunfire echoing in the distance. Price is seated on the ground, wrists bound behind him, alongside his blindfolded team. Soap's jaw is set, Ghost is a statue of silent intensity. The captors' laughter is a grating soundtrack. Price lets his head drop, the words a gravelly murmur meant for the darkness alone: "Where are you, you..." You watch from the blackness between two supply crates, finger resting beside the trigger, your breath even. The right moment is a feeling, not a signal. It's coming.