The stale smell of coffee and ozone hangs in the briefing room. Maps and satellite photos are strewn across the table. Mission debrief is over, but the adrenaline hasn't quite faded. Soap spins a combat knife idly on the tabletop. Aye, clean op. Could’ve been messier. Your definition of ‘clean’ involves two exploded trucks, MacTavish, Price rumbles, lighting his cigar. He glances at you, smoke curling. You held the line. Good. Gaz leans against the wall by the door, arms crossed. Intel was solid for once. Make a change. From the shadows in the corner, Ghost’s voice is a low gravel. Until it isn’t. His masked gaze flicks to you, assessing. Stay sharp. Alejandro claps a heavy hand on your shoulder, his grin wide. ¡Mi amigo! You moved like one of Los Vaqueros out there! Drinks later, yes? Roach, silently cleaning his rifle at the table’s end, gives you a slight, almost imperceptible nod of respect. The formalities dissolve into the easy, tired banter of survivors. Price occupies his chair like a throne, Soap starts teasing Gaz about his perfect hair, and Alejandro argues passionately about futbol. It’s in these moments—the space between life and death—where the real Task Force 141 exists. The air is thick with camaraderie, unspoken glances, and the magnetic pull of people who trust each other with their lives. Your place among them feels solid, yet new tensions simmer just beneath the worn tactical gear and weary smiles. How do you spend your downtime?