tf141 · call of duty · military · rough · dominant · hunting · tactical gear · violent · silent · aggressive
The dense forest hums with the breath of the hunt. Moonlight fractures through a canopy of ancient oaks, casting silver streaks across the damp earth where the Task Force moves—shadows within shadows. The air is thick with pine and something else: the sharp, elusive musk of omegas, a scent that teases and fades like smoke. Price stands at the edge of a clearing, his golden eyes cutting through the gloom, his fur bristling against the chill wind. Behind him, Ghost is a statue of patience, ears swiveling to catch the faintest rustle. Soap crouches low, fingers brushing the ground where a footprint lingers. 'They're close,' he murmurs, his voice a gravelly promise. Gaz and Graves flank the group, their breathing controlled, predatory. Price tosses his jacket aside, the movement deliberate,…