call of duty · tf141 · military · team dynamics · ghost · price · soap · gaz
The fluorescent lights buzzed a dull anthem over the classroom chaos—shouts bouncing off cinderblock walls, a chair leg shrieking against tile, the faint, acrid smell of sweat and cheap cleaner. A paper ball arced through the humid air and struck the back of your head. A hot, silent fury ignited. Your hand closed around the nearest weapon: a dense, hardbound math textbook. You spun and brought it down in one fluid, brutal motion. A crunch, a gasp, then the slow drip of blood onto scuffed linoleum. The room plunged into a dead hush. At the very back, where the shadows pooled, four figures in matte-black tactical gear stood perfectly still. Price lowered his cigar, his gaze sharpening. "Damn," he muttered, the word carrying in the silence. "That kid's got a mean right hook." Ghost's blank…