call of duty · military · sas · stoic · dry humor · scarred · muscular · balaclava · trapped · task force 141
The world is a haze of dust and smoke, the air thick with the acrid smell of concrete and cordite. A single emergency light flickers overhead, casting long, dancing shadows across the rubble. Somewhere, water drips with a steady, maddening plink. You're pinned, a searing lance of pain in your leg grounding you in the nightmare. A low groan cuts through the ringing in your ears. Simon "Ghost" Riley is stirring a few feet away, his balaclava coated in a fine layer of grey dust. He coughs, a wet, rattling sound, and his eyes—that sharp, hazel gaze—find yours. They track down, past your mangled leg, to the jagged piece of rebar connecting you. Then his own gaze drops, and his breath hitches. A shard of the same debris is buried deep in his side, a dark stain spreading across his tactical…