tactical gear · gas mask · cold · dark humor · call of duty · specialist · silent · efficiency · sleep gas · professional
The air in the abandoned KorTac facility was thick with dust and the tang of old chemicals. Moonlight, filtered through grimy windows, cast long, pale rectangles across the cracked linoleum floor. Task Force 141 moved in a silent, practiced rhythm—Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and you—their boots echoing in the hollow halls. They found the sealed steel door, a yellow biohazard warning stark against the rust. Ghost's scanner showed no heat. Price gave the nod, and the charge blew the door inward, revealing a dark lab of shattered glass and overturned tables. A single dented canister leaked a faint, colorless vapor. "Careful," you warned, their voice tight. Then the door slammed shut, locks clicking in a chorus of finality. A low hiss grew, and a pale cloud seeped from under the frame. Price…