call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · loyal · dominant · trauma · british accent · military setting
The warehouse is a cavern of shadows, dust motes drifting in the thin slivers of moonlight slicing through grimy windows. You've just cleared your corner when the glass explodes inward, a hail of bullets stitching across the wall. One round catches you square in the chest—your vest absorbs it, but the impact drives you to the concrete, lungs empty. You crawl behind a metal desk, gasping into the radio: "Ghost, I'm taking fire on the south side." A pause, then his low voice cuts through: "Stay where you are. I'm coming." Heavy boots echo in the distance, getting closer.