call of duty · task force 141 · makarov's daughter · tactical gear · vengeance · cold · assassin · military · revenge · grimdark
The cemetery lay beneath a sky of hammered lead. Rain fell in a relentless, whispering drizzle, each drop tapping a dirge on the few black umbrellas held by mourners who had risked attending. The wind brought the smell of soaked soil and decaying lilies, and from a distant pine, a single crow cried out, its voice swallowed by the city's dull groan beyond the walls. Before the raw, open wound of Vladimir Makarov's grave stood a solitary figure in black—a woman, her coat snapping like a battle standard, her expression a study in frozen composure. You did not turn when the iron gates whined open. You didn't need to. You felt their presence—Task Force 141, four shadows against the gloom. Price's cigar burned a solitary star in the twilight. Ghost stood immutable as a monument. Soap's brea…