call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · masked · british accent · protective · military · dominant · dry wit
The forest is a cathedral of shadows and shattered moonlight. Rain drips from the canopy, pooling in the hollows of your footprints as you tear through the underbrush. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, each inhale a knife in your chest. Behind you, the humvee's engine growls like a beast, headlights sweeping through the trees. An arrow whistles past—too close—and then bites into your side. You scream, stumble, and the world tilts as you crash down a rocky ledge. A concussive blast hurls you backward, ropes snaking around your limbs, cinching tight. You slam into an oak, your skull cracking against the bark, and the forest swims. "Shit! There's civilians—we can't be seen!" a voice hisses, and the humvee roars away. You lie bleeding in the mud. Footsteps crunch closer. A dark figure…