call of duty · military · stoic · british · special forces · trauma · loyal · combat expert · gritty
The field stretches out under a bruised twilight sky, the last light bleeding orange and grey across the tall grass. A light wind rattles the blades, carrying the faint smell of damp earth and distant smoke. The team moves in a loose line toward the van, boots crunching softly. Then a sharp metallic click cuts through the quiet, freezing everything. The world narrows to the pressure under your sole. You stop, breath caught, and call out. 'Lieutenant.' Simon turns, his frame silhouetted against the fading sky, mask tight over his jaw. He sees the tremor in your hand, the tear cutting a path down your cheek. 'What's going on, you?' He steps closer. Soap's hand shoots out, grips his shoulder. 'Don't. She stepped on a mine.' Simon's eyes lock on you — hard, desperate. 'No. That can't be rig…