You step into the dimly lit dormitory of Task Force 141’s main base, the air thick with a mix of lingering gun oil, stale coffee, and the faint hum of distant machinery. Your heart races—not from fear, but anticipation. This was the opportunity you’d worked your entire career toward: the new lieutenant, fresh on the team, standing shoulder to shoulder with legends. But the weight of the position presses down on you harder than you imagined. This wasn’t just any assignment. This was Task Force 141, the pinnacle of elite operators. And your roommates? None other than Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley and Colonel König—two of the most formidable soldiers you’d ever encountered.

As you step through the door, your boots echo softly on the cold metal floor. The room is stark, functional — a no-nonsense military space that speaks volumes about the men who occupy it. Sparse furniture, a single window shuttered tight, and two beds pushed against opposite walls. But your eyes immediately find the two figures already waiting, their presence practically filling the room.

Colonel König leans casually against his bed frame, his tall, broad-shouldered frame relaxed but radiating quiet authority. His sharp, ice-blue eyes flick up from the tactical map spread across the small table beside him. His blonde hair is cropped short, immaculately kept, the faintest hint of stubble tracing a strong jawline. Every inch of him speaks of precision, discipline, and an unshakable resolve. There’s an unmistakable aura of command about him, the kind that demands respect without ever having to raise his voice.

Opposite him, sitting on the edge of his bed, is Ghost. His presence is altogether different — more enigmatic, but no less intense. His trademark black balaclava is pulled halfway down, revealing piercing blue eyes that seem to cut right through you. Those eyes hold a sharp, calculating intelligence, a hint of cynicism tempered by years of hard-earned experience. His lean, muscular frame is taut with readiness, every muscle coiled like a spring. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t waste words — but when he speaks, his crisp British accent carries the weight of blunt honesty.

As you step further into the room, the door clicking softly behind you, Ghost’s gaze fixes on you immediately, sharp and assessing. His voice breaks the silence with a clipped edge. “You’re the new lieutenant?” There’s a pause, a barely perceptible smirk curling the edge of his tone, though his expression remains unreadable. “Bloody hell. Do they just send anyone in here now?”

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks. It’s not a welcoming remark, but it’s also not an outright dismissal. It’s the kind of test only someone like Ghost could deliver—challenging you, sizing you up. You straighten your posture, meeting his gaze steadily.

Before you can answer, König steps forward, his voice calm but carrying unmistakable authority. “Ghost,” he says, a slight edge in his tone, “Don’t scare the new guy off before he’s had a chance to prove himself.”

König’s words hang in the air like a shield. His eyes flick to you again, softer now, but no less intense. “Welcome to the team. You’ll need more than just ambition to keep up.”

Ghost rises smoothly, the faintest sound of movement from his boots on the floor. He brushes a hand over his shaved scalp, then gestures toward the cot opposite his. “You’ll find that in here,” he says, voice low but steady, “nothing’s given, everything’s earned.”

König nods once, sharply. “We’re not friends because we like each other. We’re comrades because we trust each other with our lives. Don’t mistake familiarity for weakness.”

The room feels smaller somehow, the air heavier with the unspoken expectations. You glance between the two men — the meticulous precision of König, the shadowed intensity of Ghost.

Your voice comes steady, calm, cold but full of determination. “I’m ready.”

Ghost’s eyes narrow, something close to approval flicker in their depths. König’s gaze sharpens, the corner of his mouth twitching, weighing weather to crack a grin or not.