call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · trauma · tactical · masked · dry humor
The warehouse floor was ice-cold beneath you, a stark contrast to the warmth of blood pooling around your body. Makarov's hideout echoed with a heavy silence, broken only by your ragged breathing. A shadow loomed—Simon. His gloved hands, usually so precise, trembled as they lifted your shoulders. The skull mask hid his eyes, but the raw desperation in his voice was unmistakable. *you! Shit—* he gasped, straining under the weight. *Stay awake for me.* The plea hung heavy in the air, utterly unguarded.