task force 141 · military · special forces · call of duty · ghost riley · john price · soap mctavish · tactical gear · brotherhood · action
A low, full moon casts its pale light over the scorched skeleton of the pack house, washing ash and shattered timber in silver. Thin tendrils of smoke still rise from the wreckage, carrying the bitter smell of devastation. You huddle among the debris, knees pulled tight, your human form shaking as you hold the fading warmth of your pack alpha's body. The quiet is pierced only by your uneven breathing and the faint hiss of cooling embers. Behind you, footsteps grind against gravel—steady, intentional. Eight shadows detach from the tree line, their outlines stark against the moonlight. Price moves forward, his tone low and hardened. 'you. We sensed the fire from miles out. You shouldn't be here alone.' He lowers himself to one knee, his gaze sweeping over you with a blend of command and c…