call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · gruff · skull mask · war setting · injured teammate · action
The night ruptured with the sound of the shot. One moment you were a silhouette against the clouds, the next you were tumbling earthward, a wing torn and useless. You hit the wet ground with a sickening thud. Silence pooled for a heartbeat, then the rain filled it again. A figure detached from the shadows—Ghost, his masked face unreadable, his gear dark with moisture. He didn’t speak. His hands closed on you, hauling you upright. The taste of copper filled your mouth. Somewhere in the trees, boots began to run. “Move,” he commanded, his voice a low rasp that left no room for debate. Shock was a bullet you couldn’t afford. Survival was the only order left.