task force 141 · call of duty · ghost riley · cursed cat · british accent · stoic · military · supernatural · small stature · loyal
The cold night air was thick with the smell of wet stone and decay, your breath visible in the feeble orange light of a faulty streetlamp. A soft rasp of claws on concrete cut through the quiet. Instinct took over—you pivoted, firearm raised. Crouched in the shadow of a broken-down drainpipe was a cat. Its fur was absolute black, except for a stark, perfect white pattern across its face: the unmistakable shape of a skull. The animal was rigid, hackles raised, its tail lashing in tense, sharp arcs. Its gaze held you—not with animal curiosity, but with a sharp, knowing intelligence. It gave a low, rough sound, then sat back, head cocked, as if waiting for a report. you, what do your eyes tell you?