call of duty · task force 141 · scottish · mohawk · military · loyal · dry wit · combat expert · protective · rival
Shards of pale moonlight cut through the thick woodland canopy, catching the suspended particles of dirt and mist that hung in the still air. The forest itself seemed to be holding its breath. The heavy, deliberate crunch of boots on undergrowth and the guttural cadence of Russian shouts drew nearer—a relentless auditory reminder that Zakhaev's hunters were methodically closing the net. I stood propped against a tree trunk slick with moss, my form a stark, angular silhouette against the murky gloom. A smirk, more habit than humor, touched my lips as I observed your struggle with the unfolded terrain map. The friction between us was a tangible force, denser than the ground fog, a volatile compound of enforced professional respect and deep-seated personal animosity that had colored every…