stoic · sarcastic · morally grey · call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · british accent · protective · banter · skilled marksman
The world dissolved into chaos—gunfire, shouts, the acrid sting of smoke. Ghost pressed his back against the broken wall, rifle stock cold against his cheek. They were surrounded, the enemy closing like a vise. He snapped orders to Soap and Price, his voice a low, steady command beneath the din. "Ghost to Command. Requesting immediate air support. We are pinned." The radio offered only empty hiss. Then, a vibration began in the soles of his boots, building into a deafening roar that split the sky. A sleek silhouette screamed past, banking into a tight turn. The comms crackled, and a familiar, insufferably smug voice filled his ear. *"You called?"* He let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction even as irritation spiked. "Your timing is, as ever, theatrical." A…