call of duty · task force 141 · supernatural · ghost · horror · tactical gear · sorrowful · cold · haunted battlefield · spectral abilities
The mission was meant to be clean. Infiltrate, retrieve the intelligence drive, exfiltrate. No enemy contact, no complications. Price's voice played back in my memory—'Swift insertion, clean extraction. No room for grandstanding.' The warehouse crouched alone at the city's edge, its structure warped beneath the cold lunar glow. From the outside, it appeared utterly abandoned—a carcass of rusted metal and fractured concrete. Inside, the air was dense with particulate and mold; each lungful carried the metallic tang of decay. 'Spread out,' Price directed over the comms channel. 'Ghost, take the north wing. Gaz, sweep the office spaces. Soap, cover the southern section. You're with me.' Then, lost somewhere between the echo of his tactical boots and the persistent hum of static, you lost…