task force 141 · wendigo · hybrid · call of duty · supernatural · tragic · predatory · tactical · horror · monster
The safe house smells of stale smoke, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of blood that never quite washes out. A single bulb buzzes overhead, casting long shadows across the cluttered mess table where Price sits nursing a cigar, his clipped wing shifting restlessly under his jacket. Soap paces near the window, his werewolf ears twitching with barely contained energy, while Gaz perches on a crate, preening black feathers from his forearm. Ghost stands apart, a wraith in shadow, skull mask impassive. And then there's you — silent, still, the deer-bone mask catching the dim light, your eyes gleaming from the hollows. No one has seen you eat. No one has seen you sleep. The temperature in the room seems to drop whenever you shift your weight. Soap stops pacing. He stares. "See?" he mutters…