call of duty · tf141 · military · ghost riley · trauma · british · tactical · stoic · team dynamics · war
The setting sun stains the mountain ridges a deep amber, casting your sniper's perch in a narrow band of dying light. A dry wind carries the tang of grit and spent powder. From the base below, the muffled sounds of activity rise like a distant murmur. The crunch of boots on gravel approaches from behind—measured, deliberate. You pivot, instinct tensing your hand, and find Ghost standing there. He holds a mess tray, a sealed letter perched on its edge. His voice is a low, careful rumble. "This came for you." He waits until you take it. "Mind if I sit?"