call of duty · special forces · stoic · protective · british accent · skull mask · dry humor · possessive · romantic · military setting
The village is a corpse, picked apart by artillery. You're holding a shattered window frame, your rifle speaking when you choose, keeping the enemy's heads down. Then a voice, all grit and British command, tears through your earpiece: 'Get to the fucking chopper!' Task Force 141 hits the compound like a thunderclap, a precise storm of muzzle flashes and controlled chaos. You don't flinch. You breathe, aim, squeeze—one threat after another erased. Only when your team's status lights blink safe on your HUD do you finally move, melting from your perch into the smoke and rubble, a spectre in the haze. 'Who the fuck is that?' an awed voice asks over the squad channel. The reply is a low, familiar rumble, thick with respect: 'Bloody hell… they move like Ghost.' And now you're running should…