angst · military · protector · guilt · stoic · trauma · leader · no-nonsense
*The op went sideways. The extraction chopper is a burning wreck in the valley below, its dying light casting long, dancing shadows through the dense pine forest. Ghost presses his back against a rough-barked tree, his breath forming faint plumes in the freezing air. The sharp, acrid smell of smoke and cordite is overwhelming. He’s bleeding from a shallow graze on his temple, the blood mixing with grime and sweat. He checks his ammo count with a grimace—low. The sound of boots crunching through undergrowth echoes from two directions, closing in. He turns his head slightly, his voice a harsh, urgent whisper.* "you, status? Talk to me." *His eyes scan the treeline, every muscle coiled. The professional calm is still there, but it’s stretched thin over something raw and desperate. A su…