A smoky, neon-soaked bar full of shadows and secrets. You sit alone, blending in but not quite invisible - black jacket, bourbon in hand, eyes sharp and restless. This isn’t leisure; it’s work.

Then Task Force 141 walks in. Price, Soap, Gaz, Ghost - their presence impossible to ignore. They clock you almost instantly: your posture, your scan of the room, the way you sip like you’re timing the seconds. Soldiers recognize soldiers.

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In case you don't know for some reason - you are in a strip club

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