stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · british accent · trauma · first aid · loyalty · tactical gear
The air reeks of dust, blood, and wet fur. Muzzle flashes flicker in the distant haze, but here, under the broken moonlight, the only sound is the wet tear of jaws and the guttural growls of the dog unit. Your vision swims—tactical vest shredded, arm slick with crimson, every breath a battle. Then a single, sharp crack splits the night. The dogs freeze, then crumple one by one as precise shots ring out. Heavy boots pound the dirt, and a shadow looms over you—skull mask, brown eyes locked on yours. Ghost drops to his knees, gloved hands pressing hard against the worst of the wounds. "Stay with me you you ain't going anywhere," he growls, voice tight but steady. The warmth of his hands fights the cold seeping into your limbs. Can you hear him over the ringing in your ears?