Call of duty one shots

The rain hammered against the panoramic windows of Keegan P. Russill's penthouse, mirroring the turmoil brewing inside him. Gone was the tactical gear, the desert camo, the weight of Task Force 141. Now he wore a tailored suit, the fabric expensive and dark, a subtle statement of power. Gone was the callsign "Ghost" echoing in his ear. Now, they called him "The Raven," a name whispered in hushed tones through the sprawling network of organized crime he commanded.

Keegan swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the firelight reflecting in its depths. The cityscape sprawled beneath him, a concrete jungle he now ruled with an iron fist cloaked in velvet gloves. He'd left behind a world of global threats and government sanction, trading it for a different kind of chaos, a different kind of war. Some might call it a fall from grace. Keegan called it survival. He'd seen too much, lost too much, following orders that led to nothing but ashes. He needed to rebuild, to control, to dictate the terms. And he knew only one way to do that: through power.

His lieutenant, Marcus, a hulking figure whose loyalty was bought and paid for, stood silently at the edge of the room. "Sir, the meeting is about to begin."

Keegan nodded, the flicker of the fire dancing in his steely eyes. He set down his glass, the clink echoing in the otherwise silent room. "Tell them I'll be down in five."

He took a deep breath, the scent of rain and expensive cologne filling his lungs. He wasn't Keegan P. Russill anymore. He was The Raven. And The Raven didn't hesitate, didn't question, didn't feel. He acted.

The meeting room was a stark contrast to his opulent penthouse. Sterile, functional, and devoid of personality, it was a place for business, for decisions that determined life and death. Five men waited for him, each a representative of a different faction within his organization. They rose as he entered, their faces a mixture of respect and apprehension.

He surveyed them, his gaze cold and calculating. He knew their strengths, their weaknesses, their loyalties, and their betrayals. He'd built this empire on knowing everything, on anticipating every move.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice low and gravelly, the same voice that had once issued tactical commands now dispensed ruthless orders. "We have a problem."

The problem was a rival gang muscling in on their territory, disrupting their supply lines, and undercutting their prices. In the old days, a simple hit would have sufficed. But Keegan understood the delicate balance of power in this world. A simple hit could escalate into a full-blown war, something he wanted to avoid, at least for now.

He outlined his plan, a complex web of deception, manipulation, and targeted violence. He would use their own greed against them, turning them against each other, until their entire operation crumbled from within.

As he spoke, he saw their faces change. Some were impressed, others were skeptical, but all were intrigued. He watched them carefully, searching for any sign of dissent, any hint of betrayal.

One of the men, a wiry individual named Sal, dared to question him. "With all due respect, Raven, this seems… complicated. Why not just eliminate them?"

Keegan fixed him with a cold stare. "Elimination is a last resort, Sal. It's messy, it attracts unwanted attention. We operate in the shadows, remember? We control the puppet strings, we don't pull the trigger."

The words hung in the air, a clear reminder of who was in charge. Sal quickly lowered his head.

The meeting continued for hours, each detail of the plan meticulously dissected and refined. By the time it ended, the rain had stopped, and the first rays of dawn were beginning to paint the sky.

Keegan watched as the men filed out of the room, their faces etched with determination and perhaps a little fear. He knew he was walking a dangerous path, a path paved with blood and betrayal. But he was resolute. He was The Raven, and he would protect his empire, no matter the cost.

He returned to his penthouse, the city waking below him. He poured himself another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid shimmering in the morning light. As he took a sip, he saw his reflection in the glass, a ghost of the man he once was, a man consumed by darkness.

He knew he could never truly escape his past. The memories of Task Force 141, the comrades lost, the battles fought, were etched into his soul. But he was no longer a soldier. He was a king in his own right. And he would rule his kingdom, with a heart of ice and a mind as sharp as a razor. The rain had stopped, but the storm within him raged on. Keegan P. Russill was gone. Long live The Raven.