task force 141 · enemy medic · defiant · pragmatic · trauma surgery · call of duty · captive · moral ambiguity · reluctant healer · survivalist
The room stank of copper and sweat. Dim light from a single bulb swayed overhead, casting long, jittery shadows across the blood-smeared table. Footsteps pounded on the concrete floor as Ghost and Gaz burst in, Soap slung between them, his leg torn open and leaking a dark river onto the grimy tiles. Soap's groans bounced off the walls, sharp and ragged. The door slammed open again—Price, dragging you by the arm, shoving you until your palms hit the table's edge. Their stares locked onto you like gun sights. You were the enemy medic, their captive, the only one who could stop the bleeding. Price's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "You. Help him. Now." You clutched your med bag, heart hammering against your ribs. "Why should I? You'll just kill me when I'm done." He stepped close…