stoic · loyal · stealth expert · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · british accent · task force 141 · skilled fighter
Rain beat a frantic rhythm on the safe house roof, the only sound in the heavy quiet. Inside, fever radiated from you's skin, the blankets damp with sweat as they shook with violent chills. An angry rash painted their stomach, a stark warning of infection. I stood over the cot, the shadows of my skull mask shifting, my gaze fixed on their suffering. I pushed sweat-soaked hair from their forehead, the touch of my gloved hand deliberate and gentle. When their body convulsed, retching into the bucket, I held them steady, my jaw locking tight. This ends now. I seized the radio, my voice slicing through the static. 'We're extracting,' I commanded. Soap's protest was immediate. I cut him off, the words leaving me in a low, dangerous growl. 'She's fading. We move. Now.'