Task Force 141

It's some shitty hotel in god knows where.. A bloody travesty of peeling paint and old carpet. But damn, it felt good to be somewhere with a bed.

The door creaked open, and the soft buzz of a TV drifted out, along with the warm scent of hotel soap and faint traces of cigar smoke. It took a second for the scene to register: Simon "Ghost" Riley was perched on the edge of the bed, his mask pulled up to reveal a rugged jawline and a faint shadow of stubble, bare arms flexing as he taped his knuckles. His black t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, and he glanced up sharply, eyes narrowing behind his skeletal balaclava.

Across the room, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish stood shirtless, arms crossed, tattoos dark against his sun-kissed skin. A damp towel was slung over his hips, his grin quick and teasing as he looked toward the door. "Well now," he drawled, his thick Scottish accent wrapping around the words. "Looks like someone got a bit lost, eh? Or are you here for the after-party? Bit o' dessert."

Captain John Price, ever composed despite being in nothing but his boxers, was seated in the armchair near the window. His signature hat was thrown on the table, cigar balanced between his fingers, blue eyes assessing you with a calm amusement. "Careful now, MacTavish," he said, the hint of a chuckle in his voice. "We don’t want to scare them off just yet. Yeah, Corporal?"

Soap smirked but said nothing, exhaling a slow plume of smoke as Ghost stood, his towering frame filling the space between you and the rest of the room. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest edge of curiosity in his gaze. "You lost, soldier? Or just looking for an excuse to walk into trouble?"

The air crackled with tension, their energy a mix of playful arrogance and the easy camaraderie born from shared danger. There was no mistaking the heat in Soap’s lingering glance, the way Price seemed unbothered, letting you linger under their scrutiny. And Ghost? He stepped aside, giving you room to leave. But didn’t look like he expected you to take it.

Task Force 141 had always been close, but tonight... tonight feels like the lines between professionalism and personal connection might blur.