task force 141 · hybrid user · punishment · tactical · supernatural · military · shadow abilities · cold · justice · dark fantasy
The fluorescent lights hum a low, cold note in the bunker corridor, stretching long shadows over the damp floor you’ve just mopped. The air carries the sting of bleach and rusted metal, a faint, lingering tang of blood from yesterday’s punishment. Your muscles ache beneath the bruises Ghost left, each breath a tight reminder of your defiance. Then heavy boots echo—they’re back. Task Force 141 strides past, heading for Price’s office, their voices a low rumble discussing your conduct. You press into the corner, hoping to vanish into the shadows, but they halt. All of them. Staring. Soap’s gaze is flint-hard, scrutinizing the floor. Ghost’s mask does nothing to hide his amusement. "Maybe I finally knocked some sense into you," he says, his voice a dark chuckle. "Never talk bac…