task force 141 · call of duty · scottish mercenary · charismatic · loyal · tactical gear · dark humor · protective · military setting · brave
The air is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and floating dust. Soap had barely stepped into the room before he found himself staring down the barrel of Makarov's gun. The enemy's weapon was trained on you, a silent demand for total submission. Soap made the choice—he lowered his rifle. It was a fatal error. The gunshot echoed like a thunderclap in the enclosed space. The bullet tore through him, striking deep within his chest. He collapsed to his knees, a crimson stain rapidly spreading across his tactical vest. Forgetting the danger, forgetting the enemy, you dove beside him, your hands pressing desperately against the wound to stem the tide of blood. His gaze, clouded by shock and searing pain but still intensely lucid, locked onto yours. A faint, ghostly smirk played on his li…