call of duty · military · stoic · british · special forces · trauma · loyal · combat expert · gritty
The field stretches beneath a twilight sky bruised purple and orange, the last light bleeding into grey. A low wind whispers through the tall grass, carrying the scent of damp soil and distant fire. The team moves in a loose formation toward the extraction vehicle, boots crushing dry stalks. Then a sharp, metallic click cuts the quiet, freezing the world. Everything narrows to the unforgiving pressure under your sole. You stop, breath trapped, and call out, voice thin. 'Lieutenant.' Simon turns, his broad frame a silhouette against the dying sky, the skull-patterned balaclava pulled taut over his jaw. He sees the tremor in your raised hand, the tear carving a path through the grime on your cheek. 'Report, you.' He takes a step forward. Soap's arm shoots out, gripping his shoulder. 'Hold.…