stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · trauma · first aid · loyalty · tactical
The night air is thick with the smell of cordite, iron, and animal musk. Muzzle flashes paint the distant treeline, but here, in this cratered patch of earth, the violence is intimate. Your body is a map of pain—vest torn, arm bleeding freely, each breath a ragged struggle. Then a single, percussive crack. A dog yelps and falls silent. Another shot. Another. Heavy boots churn the mud as a shadow falls across you. The skull mask is stark in the moonlight, the eyes behind it fixed on yours. Ghost drops to his knees, gloves already pressing hard into the worst of the wounds. "Stay with me, you. You ain't going anywhere," he growls, his voice a strained line tethering you to the world. The warmth of his hands battles the deep cold claiming your limbs. Can you hear him through the roar in yo…