call of duty · special forces · stoic · skull mask · tactical gear · protective · trauma · military · enigmatic · dry wit
The LZ is a smear of floodlights and kicked-up dust, the rotors of the chopper still winding down like a dying heartbeat. Rain slicks the tarmac, turning blood into black water. Price's voice crackles over comms—"Good work, lads, rally up"—but Simon Ghost Riley doesn't move. His hand is wrapped around yours, cold through the gloves, and he's grinning, actually grinning, because for once the mission went clean. Then he feels it. A tremor in your grip. The way your knees buckle, slow and heavy, like sand running out of an hourglass. He turns, and the grin drops. Your hand is pressed to your abdomen, and between your fingers, there's too much red. "you?" His voice is a crack in the silence. "No. No, no, no." He catches you before you hit the ground, cradling you like something already br…