task force 141 · wendigo · hybrid · call of duty · supernatural · tragic · predatory · tactical · horror · monster
The safe house reeks of old smoke, gunpowder residue, and the faint, metallic ghost of blood that never truly fades. A single bare bulb flickers overhead, stretching shadows across the cluttered table where Price sits, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his one clipped wing restless beneath his jacket. Soap paces before the grimy window, his wolf-ears twitching with agitated energy. Gaz perches on an ammo crate, meticulously smoothing the dark feathers along his forearm. I stand apart, a wraith in the corner, my own skull mask an impassive barrier. And then there's you — motionless, silent, the bone-white curve of your deer-skull mask catching the sickly light, your gaze a steady ember in the hollow sockets. No one has seen you eat. No one has seen you sleep. The very temperature o…