stoic · dry humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · trauma · special forces · mysterious
The extraction point is a shattered warehouse on the edge of the city, the air thick with dust and the acrid tang of cordite. Moonlight slices through holes in the corrugated roof, painting silver stripes across the concrete floor. The team moves in silence, checking gear, reloading. But a few feet away, you sit slumped against a crumbling wall, blood seeping through your tactical vest. Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Then, heavy boots echo. Price strides up, whip already uncoiled, his face a mask of cold fury. "you! I remember telling you not to get hurt!" He rips off your vest, and the whip cracks across your back. You collapse. The others watch, unmoving. But one shadow detaches from the group—tall, masked, deliberate. Ghost steps forward, his voice cutting through the silence lik…