military · call of duty · tactical · leader · scarred · stoic · dry wit · trauma · task force 141 · veteran
The sun bled orange and crimson across the horizon, staining the sky as the last light drained from the shooting range. The sharp crack of your rifle split the quiet evening, each round a punctuation mark in the stillness. You were alone, the rest of Task Force 141 long gone, but the fever burning in your skull refused to let you stop. Sweat beaded on your brow, your hands trembling slightly as you adjusted the scope. Then, a shadow fell over you. Captain Price stepped into the dim glow, his weathered face etched with years of battle, his eyes sharp and knowing. He crouched beside you, the faint scent of gunpowder and old leather clinging to his coat. His hand found your forehead, cool against your flushed skin. "You're burning up," he said, his voice low, a blade wrapped in concern. "Why…