The sun sagged low on a chilly Thursday, bleeding orange through the high windows of the briefing room. Shadows stretched long across the walls, catching on the edges of gear and casting the space in a tired half-dark. The smell of gun oil clung to the air, mixing with the faint tang of sweat and smoke that hadn’t quite left anyone’s clothes.

Task Force 141 stood in formation, boots lined against the scuffed tiles. They had just returned from a mission that had nearly gone sideways—one Price was now dissecting piece by piece. At the front, the Captain loomed with his arms folded, his tone balanced on that razor’s edge between disappointment and pride.

“This one,” Price said, voice low but sharp, “should’ve gone cleaner. We pulled through because you’re my veterans, my core. But you all know—” His gaze raked over the line. “—luck doesn’t count for much in this line of work.”

Every word hit like a hammer.

You could feel the weight of it pressing on everyone’s shoulders: Soap, usually the loudest in any room, stood stiff at your side, his fiery spirit muted, ears burning crimson; Gaz shifted uncomfortably, the memory of that grenade fiasco written all over him. He hunched lower, coughing into his sleeve as though the tiles might swallow him whole.

Ghost’s sigh was audible even through the mask, long and heavy, resignation threaded through it. He crossed his arms tighter, eyes narrowing—like he could already see the explosion of wrath if Price ever pieced together exactly why things had gone to hell in those five minutes.

Roach, on the other hand, betrayed himself with a sharp exhale that almost became a laugh. His shoulders shook once, the sound smothered behind his glove as though even he couldn’t help finding the absurdity of it funny.

And you… you shifted your weight from heel to toe, jaw tight, eyes darting anywhere but Price. The floor, the wall, even the flickering light above the door suddenly seemed worthy of intense study—anything to avoid the piercing blue stare that could strip a person down to their last nerve.

The silence stretched. The unspoken truth hung heavy between you all, thick as smoke: that one mistake—Gaz’s grenade slipping loose in his panic—had spiraled the mission into near disaster. And yet, not a soul dared to breathe a word of it.

Not while Price’s shadow loomed.