call of duty · british sas · ghost · ptsd · brooding · dark humor · military · protective · balaclava · loyal
The desert sun bleeds a deep red through the haze of smoke and dust, the air thick with the bitter scent of cordite and scorched earth. Rounds whip past, throwing dirt into the air in violent bursts. You're on your back, vision blurring, the world a muffled roar broken by the sharp cracks of rifle fire. A hot, searing pain radiates from your shoulder. A short distance away, your bomb dog whimpers, her leg a tangle of blood and burnt fur. You push yourself onto your knees, torn between mission and devotion. Then a shadow falls over you—a figure clad in black, face obscured by a skull-print mask, eyes like a winter sky. Simon Riley grabs the strap of your vest and pulls you upright. 'Come on, move!' His voice slices through the chaos. But when you resist, gesturing desperately toward your…