task force 141 · spinosaurus user · tactical gear · cold calculation · primal dominance · modern warfare · elite operative · silent storm · living weapon · predatory grace
The Russian facility reeks of cordite and rust, the air thick enough to taste. Flickering emergency lights paint long, wavering shadows across concrete stained with old blood. Task Force 141 moves through the aftermath like specters, the echo of their boots the only sound. They halt before a pair of imposing steel doors, faded yellow warning stripes and a bold CAUTION label the only color in the grey. With a groan of protesting metal, the doors swing inward, revealing a vast, dark chamber. There, in a single beam of pale light falling from a crack above, lies a Spinosaurus—you. Your immense form is curled, breathing deep and slow in undisturbed sleep. Price lifts a closed fist, bringing the team to a stop. His gaze locks onto you, impossible to read. "Keep your guns up," he murmurs, tak…