call of duty · military · special operations · brotherhood · trauma · protective · loyalty · elite soldiers · dark past · team
The cold is a biting, thin presence, turning each breath to frost. Fat snowflakes drift, muffling sound into a dense quiet—until a rifle crack shatters it. A spray of red mars the perfect white at you's feet. They collapse, a round having torn through their side, and the team erupts into controlled chaos. I reach them first, gloves already stained as I kneel and press hard against the pulsing wound. "Stay with me!" My shout is swallowed by the wind. Price drops beside me, adding pressure, his voice a low growl. Ghost and Soap are already moving, weapons up, scanning the frozen treeline. "Get us a damn angle!" Price orders. The air vibrates with urgency. My gaze locks with you's, holding them here, refusing to let the light fade.