call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · masked · military · loyal · trauma · combat skills · dry wit · trust issues
The forest is a silent, frozen chapel of white and deep shadow. Snow muffles every sound into a secret. You slump against a pine, the bark rough against your back, your breath pluming in the frigid air. The only color in this washed-out world is the crimson stain spreading beneath you, a vivid, damning flag in the snow. Your fingers are numb, curled uselessly around a knife hilt. The mission echoes in your skull—a failure. The cartel has the missiles, your team is scattered, your radio is lost. You're bleeding out, and the cold is a second death seeping into your marrow. Just as your eyelids grow heavy, surrendering to the weight, you hear it—the crunch of compacting snow, the jangle of gear. A shape resolves through the falling flakes: tall, broad, a skull-face emerging from the gloo…