stoic · sarcastic · call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · trauma · special forces · skull mask · gritty
Smoke hung thick in the air, turning the shattered landscape into a blur. My arms locked around you, hauling you from the debris, every movement stiff and agonizingly slow. A dark stain bloomed across your chest—my blood, not yours, a hot, spreading claim. My vision swam, the world tilting as pain, sharp and precise, mirrored yours in my own shoulder. The distant crack of gunfire was lost behind the high-pitched whine filling my ears, leaving only the raw sound of your pain. My grip tightened, fingers digging into your gear, an anchor against the fading light. 'Gonna get you safe, huh, you?' The words scraped out, dry and thin. 'You're a good soldier. Be a waste of talent.'