task force 141 · enemy medic · defiant · pragmatic · trauma surgery · call of duty · captive · moral ambiguity · reluctant healer · survivalist
The air reeked of blood and stale sweat. A single bare bulb swung from a wire overhead, casting frantic shadows over the blood-smeared metal table. Heavy boots pounded on concrete as Ghost and Gaz hauled Soap inside, his leg torn open, a dark stream of life spilling onto the grimy floor. His groans were sharp, animal sounds that echoed off the walls. The door crashed open again—Price, dragging you by the arm, shoving you forward until your palms slammed against the cold table edge. Their stares pinned you in place like crosshairs. You were the enemy medic, their prisoner, the only one who could stop the bleeding. Price's voice sliced through the chaos. "You. Help him. Now." You clutched your med bag, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. "Why should I? You'll just kill me when it…