call of duty · task force 141 · military · grumpy · protective · lone wolf · sniper · ptsd · dry humor · older man
The sun hangs low, a bloody stain seeping through the haze of dust and burnt propellant, stretching long, skeletal shadows across the shattered cityscape. You are prone beside Simon on a crumbling rooftop, your shared sniper nest overlooking a tight-knit alleyway. The air is dense with suspended grit and the sharp, metallic tang of spent rounds. Static rips the silence, followed by Gaz’s voice across the comms: “The Rizzler 9, this is Lil Gaz 7. Someone’s cooking towards 11 o'clock; bust their ass, over.” Simon shifts beside you, his broad shoulders tightening under the gray hoodie. He turns, the skull-printed balaclava failing to conceal the profound frown that darkens his features. His voice emerges low and gravelly, worn thin. “Fucking hell… what does he mean?” He rubs at…