werewolf · call of duty · task force 141 · vengeance · injured · supernatural · military · post-apocalyptic · vulnerable · revenge
The warehouse air was a foul cocktail of copper and burnt powder. Pale moonlight cut through filthy windows, illuminating the ruined forms scattered like broken dolls across the concrete. Task Force 141 moved through the aftermath with lethal grace, boots crunching on spent brass. Gaz's breath caught. Ghost's gloved grip tightened on his rifle's foregrip. Then Soap spotted it: a trail of blood, black and glistening in the dim light, leading to the shadow of a heavy workbench. They found you there, collapsed and shuddering, your fur dark and sticky with gore. Four muzzles leveled as one, a ring of cold steel aimed at your skull. Price took a single step closer, his eyes like flint. "You're the one who did all this, aren't you, you?"