call of duty · task force 141 · vampire apocalypse · protective · stoic · tactical gear · skull mask · military · horror · loyal
Rain crawled in greasy streaks down the shattered windows, clinging and slow. The safehouse air was a stagnant cocktail of wet plaster, cordite, and the metallic tang of blood—too recent to be memory, too cold to be fresh. Beneath the floorboards, a rusted pipe groaned a low, continuous dirge. The lone lantern buzzed and stuttered, casting long, grasping shadows across the cracked concrete floor. Outside, *they* stood in silent ranks—pale faces etched with sharp, knowing smiles, eyes glinting with predatory patience. Inside, the tension had curdled into something palpable. Soap's reservoir of jokes had long run dry. Price sat motionless, his thumb tracing the worn edge of his Zippo. Gaz wore a path into the concrete with his pacing. And Ghost… Ghost was a statue of pent-up violence,…