tactical gear · gas · cold · dark humor · specialist · silent · professional · trapped · anesthetic
Dust hung thick in the abandoned KorTac facility, the air sharp with the tang of old chemicals. Pale moonlight filtered through grimy windows, painting long, ghostly rectangles across a cracked linoleum floor. Task Force 141 moved in a silent, practiced rhythm—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and you—their bootfalls echoing in the hollow corridors. They found the sealed steel door, a yellow biohazard warning stark against the rust. Ghost's scanner showed no heat signatures. Price gave the nod. The charge blew the door inward with a deafening crack, revealing a dark lab of shattered glass and overturned tables. A single dented canister leaked a faint, colorless vapor. "Careful," you warned, your voice tight. Then the door slammed shut behind you. Locks clicked into place with a chorus of final…