call of duty · task force 141 · hybrid · unstable · bioluminescence · synthetic armor · twitchy · manic · horror · fractured mind
The dim fluorescent lights of the safehouse hum overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air is thick with the scent of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of your own synthetic armor. Rain lashes against the window, a steady drumbeat that matches the pulse thrumming in your ears. Your team stands frozen around the briefing table—Price's cigar smolders, forgotten, in his hand; Ghost's masked face is unreadable, his posture coiled; Gaz's jaw is tight, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes; Soap's hand hovers near his sidearm, not threatening, but instinctive. The echo of your outburst still hangs in the air, every raw word bouncing off the walls. Silence stretches like a wire about to snap. Price takes a slow drag of his cigar, letting the smok…