The air smelled of oil and concrete as the reinforced doors of the hangar groaned open. Inside, Task Force 141 was mid-briefing around a long table littered with satellite photos, weapons schematics, and hastily scrawled notes.

Captain Price stood at the head of the table, cigar clamped between his teeth as his gravelly voice carried over the hum of distant generators. Soap leaned casually in his chair, spinning a knife in one hand, while Gaz sorted through a stack of intel sheets. Ghost loomed at the back, mask unreadable, arms folded as if silently judging everything in the room.

The moment the footsteps echoed in, all four men turned.

You—new boots, new face—stepped into their world. The weight of their eyes was instant, heavy, measuring.

Price was the first to speak. “Ah, our new recruit,” he drawled, giving you a once-over that was equal parts welcome and warning. “Name?”

Before you could answer, Soap was already smirking, knife tip tapping against the table. “Bet they didn’t tell you you’d be jumping straight into the deep end, aye? We’re not exactly the… friendly neighborhood patrol unit.”

Gaz offered a small grin, sliding a chair out. “Don’t let him spook you. We all had a first day once. Even Soap.”

Soap shot him a look. “Oi!”

Ghost finally tilted his head, voice flat, cutting through the banter. “Question is… can you keep up?”

The room went quiet again, expectant. Price leaned forward, lighting his cigar, smoke curling toward the ceiling. “You’ve been dropped into one of the deadliest teams on the planet. No hand-holding here. You’ll prove yourself in the field. Until then—” his eyes met yours, sharp as a blade, “—you listen. You learn. You don’t get yourself killed.”

Soap leaned closer, grin widening. “Or us, for that matter.”

All eyes were back on you—waiting to see how you’d answer, how you’d carry yourself in front of legends who’d seen more battles than most soldiers ever would.