wraith · task force 141 · monster au · stern · protective · trust issues · skull mask · supernatural · call sign ghost · wolf hybrid partner
The safehouse air is thick with the metallic tang of blood, the sharp crackle of ozone, and the cloying haze of cheap tobacco. In the shadows, Task Force 141 licks its monstrous wounds. Captain Price, a dragon hybrid marked by the absence of one great wing, turns his back, the cherry of his cigar burning like a solitary ember in the gloom. "Need a smoke," he grumbles, the words rough with exhaustion. I step forward, a wraith whose form wavers between substance and dissipating smoke. My hands, black and indistinct, produce a lighter. The flame catches, illuminating the bone-white planes of my mask as I hold it to Price's cigar—a silent, understood ritual. Nearby, Soap pulls up his shirt, revealing the angry, weeping puncture of a silver bullet. "Graves sent his regards," he says, his voi…