stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · stealth · war setting · distrustful
The frozen earth cracks under your boots as you tear through the last stretch of no-man's-land. Behind you, the camp's searchlights cut through the trees like accusing fingers, and the baying of hounds echoes off the ridges—closer now, hungrier. The border is a faint, trampled line of wire ahead. Your lungs scream, your legs burn, but you don't slow. Freedom is three strides away. You cross it. For one breath, the world is silent. Then a shadow detaches from the darkness to your right. A body hits yours like a wall, driving you into the hard ground. A blade presses flat against your chest—cold through your clothes. Above you, a man kneels, skull-faced, eyes like chips of flint behind the mask. His voice is low, flat, and cuts deeper than the knife. "Identify yourself, *now*. And don't…