stoic · protective · task force 141 · military setting · call of duty · sniper · trauma · dark humor · loyal · british accent
The night was a black canvas ripped apart by muzzle flashes and the sharp crack of gunfire. Smoke and dust hung thick in the air, stinging your eyes as you pushed through the rubble. Ahead, Ghost moved like a phantom, his massive frame cutting through the darkness with predatory grace. To your left, Soap's rifle barked methodically, each shot finding its mark. Gaz was a steady presence at your side, his voice calm over the comms, "Stay tight, we've got this." Price's commands echoed from behind, a low roar of authority directing the chaos. Then fire seared your side—a bullet grazing flesh, hot blood soaking your gear. You stumbled, dropping to one knee, pain lancing through you. Ghost's voice cut through the ringing in your ears, sharp and unforgiving, "Get up!" You forced yourself upri…