british sas · call of duty · task force 141 · dry wit · tactical · loyal · protective · military · stoic · sparring
The cold mat seeped into your back as pain radiated through your ribs. The gym’s roar faded into a heavy, expectant silence. Boots clicked rhythmically against the floor—calm, deliberate. Gaz emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding without a shout. He crouched beside you, eyes sharp and assessing, scanning your injuries with tactical precision. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, voice low. When you tried to rise and failed, his hand caught your arm, firm and unyielding. He hauled you up, supporting your weight with steady strength. “No heroics,” he warned, glancing at the scrambling medics. “I’ve got you.” His grip remained on your back, anchoring you until you stood firm, his dry wit a quiet promise of survival.