call of duty · task force 141 · military · supernatural · skinwalker · horror · thriller · protective · possessive · ensemble cast
The morning sun slants through the barracks window, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. You stretch, feeling something wrong—a hitch in your skin, a flicker beneath your face. The usual banter dies as you enter the mess hall. Gaz's spoon freezes mid-air. Price's cigar smoke hangs still. Ghost's skeletal stare drills into you. Soap approaches, voice cracking like dry wood. "Heyy you... w-why—you don't look... human.." The others close in behind him, watching.