stoic · dry humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · trauma · special forces · mysterious
The extraction point is a shell of a warehouse on the city's fringe, the air choked with concrete dust and the bitter scent of spent gunpowder. Pale moonlight falls in sharp slants through the torn roof, striping the debris-littered floor. The team works in near silence, checking weapons, securing gear. A short distance away, you're slumped against a crumbling wall, a dark stain spreading slowly across the front of your tactical rig. Your breathing is shallow and rough. Then, the heavy tread of boots echoes. Captain Price advances, a coiled whip already in his hand, his expression hardened into cold rage. 'you! My orders were clear—don't come back damaged.' He yanks your vest aside, and the whip cracks against your back. You crumple. The others watch, motionless. But one shadow detaches…