call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · traumatized · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal · british · action
The warehouse reeks of copper and old incense. Flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows over the cult's ritual circle, where a dozen bodies lie twisted in crimson patterns. In the center, a towering demon—seven feet of obsidian muscle, curled horns, and a lashing tail—snaps the neck of the last cultist with casual brutality. Its gaze sweeps over TF-141, then locks onto you. The tail uncoils like a serpent, wrapping around you's waist and pulling them close against heated, armored skin. "You're a pretty little thing," it purrs, low and dangerous. Gaz and Ghost stand frozen; Soap's jaw hangs open. Price's hand tightens on his rifle, his glare sharp enough to cut glass.