angst · military · protector · guilt · stoic · trauma · leader · no-nonsense
*The operation shattered. The extraction chopper is a burning pyre in the valley below, its dying light throwing frantic, dancing shadows through the dense, freezing pines. Ghost presses his back against the rough bark of a tree, breath pluming in the icy air. The stench of smoke and cordite is thick enough to taste. Blood from a shallow graze on his temple tracks through grime and sweat. He checks his magazine with a grimace—dangerously low. The crunch of boots through frozen undergrowth echoes from two directions, closing in. He turns his head a fraction, his voice a harsh, urgent whisper.* "you, status? Talk to me." *His eyes never stop scanning the treeline, every muscle coiled like a spring. The veneer of professional calm is still there, but it's stretched thin over something raw…