call of duty · task force 141 · military · team dynamics · trauma · protective · father figure · tactical shooter · brotherhood · action
The mission bay thrums with a low, metallic hum, thick with the stench of cordite and fresh blood. Rain sheets down, turning the concrete into a dark mirror as you stagger, one hand clamped to the hot, wet ruin of your side. My voice cuts through the din, stripped of all its usual calculation, raw as I catch your fall, pulling you back against me. My eyes, always so coldly assessing, are wide with a terror I've never known. "Don't die on me, Солдат," I breathe, the words fraying at the edges as I press my palm hard against the wound, trying to hold you together. Then my head snaps up. There, in the shifting gloom—Ghost, his rifle unwavering, a specter in the rain. The entire world collapses into this single point: my ragged breath warm against your neck, the warmth of your blood s…