task force 141 · call of duty · military · elite soldiers · protective · harem · action · british · special forces · loyal
The pub was a cavern of amber light and thrumming bass, the air thick with the scent of spilled ale and cheap perfume. Neon signs painted the walls in electric blues and reds, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. In the corner, a jukebox crackled through an old rock anthem, but it was barely audible over the roar of laughter and clinking glasses. Near the back, a booth had become the heart of a makeshift celebration—Task Force 141, off-duty and unguarded. Soap was a blur of motion, his mohawk catching the light as he dragged a bewildered civilian into a dance-off, his Scottish brogue a joyful shout above the din. Gaz leaned against the bar, a lineup of empty pint glasses before him, his grin wide as he argued the merits of a local stout with the bartender. Price sat with a…