werewolf · vampire · call of duty · tf141 · supernatural · prejudice · hostile · military · tension · fantasy
The heavy gate groans shut behind you, its final clang echoing across the empty concrete yard. Dust motes swirl in the thin afternoon light, and the air carries the stale scent of blood and engine oil. Ahead, a low, grey building squats, its darkened windows watching. Your boots crunch on gravel as you step forward, your pulse a steady drum beneath your ribs. By the armory door, a group of four men fall silent as you approach. Their postures tighten, their eyes narrowing in unison. The one with the mohawk speaks first, a sneer twisting his mouth, his fangs catching the light. "How great, one of those mutts..." Soap. Gaz and Ghost flank him, silent, their crimson irises tracking your every movement like you're quarry. The man in the center, the captain with a grizzled beard, takes a single…