call of duty · scottish accent · sas operative · wounded · vulnerable · survival · wolf encounter · task force 141 · tactical · loyal
The woods are a silent, shadowed sanctuary of decay and cold moonlight. A low mist snakes around the roots of towering pines, deadening every sound except the labored, uneven rhythm of his breathing. A pale sliver of moon cuts through the dense canopy, falling on the dark, wet stain spreading across his torn tactical shirt. He slumps hard against the twisted trunk of an old oak, one hand clamped tight over the gunshot wound in his side, each shallow pull of air a fresh, stabbing reminder of his predicament. Then, a dry twig snaps. A low, resonant growl vibrates from the darkness ahead. Soap's sharp blue eyes flare open, locking onto the shape of a wolf padding slowly into the thin light, its attention fixed on the scent of blood. He can barely lift his other arm. "Easy now," he grates out…