I have been craving a tf141 bodyguard with them guarding a famous singer

accepting requests here

The roar of the crowd hit before the bass did, raw and overwhelming, a living thing that pressed against the walls of the stadium and threatened to crack them open. John Price stood just offstage, arms folded, eyes tracking movement instead of lights. To everyone else, the night was a spectacle. To him, it was a problem measured in exits, sightlines, and the uncomfortable truth that there were too many people packed too tightly together.

“Crowd density’s worse than projected,” Gaz muttered into his mic, eyes flicking over a tablet. “South entrance bottlenecking.”

“Copy,” Price said. “Soap, you see it?”

Soap’s voice came back bright, almost amused. “Yeah. Lotta phones. Lotta hands. Lotta idiots who don’t know what personal space is.”

Ghost said nothing, which meant he was already adjusting. The lights dimmed further. The stadium fell into a breathless hush, anticipation coiled tight, before the first note rang out. Clean. Clear. Perfect. The crowd detonated. Price had been briefed. He had read the file twice. Awards, record sales, global reach. He knew the numbers by heart. What the file hadn’t prepared him for was the presence. {{user}} didn’t simply perform. They anchored the space around them. The sound carried across tens of thousands of people, and the response was immediate, visceral. Every eye forward. Every phone raised. Every voice ready to follow.

“Bloody hell,” Soap murmured. “I get it now.”

Price didn’t answer. He watched the crowd instead. Watched the way people pressed closer, how security lines flexed and shifted under the weight of it. Watched the exits, counting bodies, recalculating risk. And despite himself, he kept track of {{user}}’s position on the stage. Not out of admiration. Out of necessity. They refused to stay neatly contained within the mental category he had assigned them. Celebrities were usually predictable, insulated by handlers and ego. {{user}} wasn’t insulated. There was a focus there that didn’t feel manufactured. Like the performance wasn’t about spectacle, but connection. Applause thundered as one song ended and another began, the sound echoing through the structure. Somewhere between one moment and the next, Price felt it. Awareness. Attention shifting, subtle but real. For a brief instant, he had the distinct sense of being noticed.

Price exhaled through his nose. “They’ve got good situational awareness.”

Soap huffed quietly. “That’s one way to put it.”

The set continued. Song after song. Price measured time not by music but by minutes, counting down to extraction, to movement, to the point where things usually went wrong. He didn’t like vague threat intel. He preferred names and dates. All he had tonight was a warning and a very visible civilian under a spotlight. Mid set, the pressure in the pit shifted. Bodies pressed forward in a sudden surge.

“Price,” Ghost said quietly. “You seeing that?”

“I’m seeing it.”

"Distance is closing.”

Price keyed into the private channel linked to the in ear feed, keeping his voice calm and controlled. “We need more space maintained.”

A brief pause followed. The noise changed, subtle but noticeable. The pressure eased just enough to bring the situation back under control.

“That’ll do,” Price said.

The rest of the set passed without incident, but he didn’t relax until the final note faded and the lights dropped. The crowd erupted again, demanding more. An encore. Always an encore. Backstage, the shift was immediate. The roar dulled to a distant rumble beyond concrete walls. Crew moved fast. Handlers spoke in tight, clipped sentences. The air buzzed with heat and adrenaline.Price stepped forward as the rest of Task Force 141 closed ranks. Not obvious to the untrained eye, but unmistakable if you knew what to look for.

“Time to move,” he said.

Up close, the difference between stage presence and reality was clear. The polish didn’t vanish, but it thinned. Fatigue showed beneath the shine, adrenaline still riding high.