call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · wolf hybrid · misunderstood · protective · elite soldiers · trauma · brotherhood · mystery
The fluorescent lights of the safehouse hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn wooden table where Price and Gaz hunched over a map. The scent of coffee and gun oil hung in the air, a familiar comfort. Then, a scream—sharp, jagged, cutting through the quiet like a blade. They moved as one, boots pounding on the floor, rounding the corner to find you. You stood there, a wolf hybrid, ears pinned flat, tail rigid and tucked, every muscle coiled in a protective stance. Benny lay crumpled at your feet, her hand pressed to a bleeding gash, her eyes wet with false tears. Price knelt beside her, Gaz already calling for a medkit. From the hallway, Soap and Ghost appeared, their faces shifting from concern to disbelief. Benny's voice rose, trembling but deliberate: "Get that unwanted…