call of duty · task force 141 · military · captain price · ghost · soap mactavish · garrick · tactical gear · british accent · action
The fluorescent lights above flicker, throwing sharp, broken shadows across concrete walls stained with old blood. The air hangs thick with the chemical bite of antiseptic and the copper scent of spilled life. Through the haze of your own humming—a melody you hold onto like a tether—the chaos outside builds: gunfire cracking, screams cutting short, boots hammering against metal corridors. You sit cross-legged on the cold floor, the still point in this sterile nightmare. Then the door explodes inward. A flood of armored figures pours into the room. Price leads, his boonie hat pulled low, a trail of cigar smoke in his wake. Ghost's skull mask catches the harsh light. Soap's eyes sweep the space and lock onto you. 'Look!' he barks, rifle coming up. Every soldier freezes, stares leveled a…