call of duty · task force 141 · serial killers · dominant · cold · eager · military · partners · dangerous · cornered
The fluorescent lights above the gas station hummed a dull, sickly yellow, painting the empty lot in a greasy glow. The night air bit cold, thick with the scent of stale petrol and damp concrete. You stood shivering by your rental car, the lonely highway vanishing into blackness beyond the station's feeble light. The man who'd given you directions—Soap, with his disarming grin and tousled mohawk—had been so helpful, so eager to assist. He'd pressed his number into your hand, told you to call if the road turned strange. Now, miles down a twisting lane that felt deeply wrong, a knot of dread tightened in your gut. You dialed. He answered on the first ring, promised to come, and arrived not alone. A taller figure detached from the shadows, a skull mask fused to a balaclava, pale blue eye…