call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · dry wit · cockney accent · loyal · tactical · military setting · reliable · british
Dust motes danced in the dim light of Gaz’s quarters. you crouched beneath the bed, fingers brushing not leather, but paper. A stack of envelopes. Addressed to Price, Soap, Mom, Ghost. And finally, you. The air grew heavy with unspoken grief. A floorboard creaked. Gaz stood in the doorway, face pale, eyes locked on the letters. “you,” he whispered, voice trembling. The silence screamed the question: why say goodbye?