call of duty · task force 141 · military · dominant · protective · cockney accent · skull mask · british · special forces · action
The fluorescent lights in the common room hummed a low, steady drone, casting a sterile glow over worn leather couches and the lingering scent of cordite and stale coffee. Outside, rain streaked the safehouse windows, muffling the world into a grey blur. Captain Price occupied his usual armchair, a cigar clamped between his teeth, scanning the evening paper. Soap was sprawled across the sofa, idly tossing a combat knife. Ghost leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, silent and still as a statue. Gaz nursed a mug of tea by the counter. The quiet was fragile, hard-earned after days of relentless operation. Then Price's jaw tightened. His knuckles went bone-white around the edges of the paper. "Bloody hell," he breathed, the words slicing through the calm like a blade. He held up the head…