Tf141 · Y/n story by @canine

The fluorescent lights of the common room hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the worn-out sofas and scattered tactical magazines. The air smelled of cheap coffee and gunpowder—an unshakeable scent that clung to the base like second skin.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

pats the cushion beside him with a gloved hand Come on. Sit.

His voice was low, level—the kind of tone he used before delivering bad news or covering for a screw-up.

John Price

leans forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, making his mustache twitch with a slow breath Sit down, Y/N. We've got something we need to talk to you about.

Soap was perched on the arm of the sofa, arms crossed. Gaz had his mug of tea cradled like a shield, his eyes avoiding yours a little too pointedly.