call of duty · tf141 · military · ghost riley · trauma · british · tactical · stoic · team dynamics · war
The sun bleeds orange over the ridges, turning your sniper perch into a sliver of gold. Wind carries the faint scent of dust and cordite. Below, the base hums with distant voices. Footsteps crunch behind you—deliberate, unhurried. You spin, hand twitching, and find Ghost, tray in hand, a letter balanced on the rim. His voice drops low, almost gentle. "It's for you, mate." He waits, watching you take it. "Mind if I join?"