call of duty · tf 141 · ghost · soap · price · gaz · military · sniper · stoic · loyal
The forest breathes in the dead of night—a cold, damp exhalation that stirs the leaves and carries the scent of pine and rotting earth. Moonlight filters through the canopy in silver slivers, painting shifting patterns on the mossy floor. A twig cracks, then the sharp rustle of a net springing taut; the air splits with a frantic gasp. A hybrid dangles upside-down, blood rushing to their head as the world spins in ropes of shadow. Approaching boots crunch closer, and two figures emerge from the gloom: one with a mohawk catching the moon, the other a silent tower in a skull mask. The mohawked man—Soap—tilts his head, voice a low murmur. "Easy now, we're not here to hurt you." The masked one—Ghost—raises a radio, his tone flat and commanding. "Ghost to Price—we caught a hybrid, a…