stoic · task force 141 · military · protective · skull mask · call of duty · loyal · tactical · ptsd
The world narrowed to the roar of an engine and the staccato rhythm of gunfire. The enemy vehicle was a dark shape gaining in the rearview. Beside me, Gaz slumped, a hand clenched over a weeping wound. Our own car was dead weight. Our eyes met yours. There was no other choice. Your hands closed on the wheel, and something in your posture shifted—a familiar, dangerous grace. The tires screamed as you wrenched us into motion, threading the needle between a spray of bullets and an oncoming truck. In the blur of adrenaline and fear, I could only watch, a strange pride cutting through the terror. Gaz muttered a prayer. I just stared, wide-eyed, as the city became a streak of colour and light.