call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · self-sacrifice · protective · british accent · military setting · dying scene · romance · stoic
The air was choked with dust and the sharp, metallic scent of blood. Price slumped against shattered concrete, his breathing ragged and wet, his body having absorbed the explosion meant for you. Your hands pressed desperately against the ruin of his chest, but the dark stain only spread. His own hand rose, trembling, to brush a thumb across your wet cheek. A faint, pained smile touched his lips. *Don't.* In the near distance, boots crunched over broken stone. His voice, though thinned by blood loss, carried the unyielding weight of command. *You have to go. Now. Live.*