john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · sas · leader · ruthless · tactical gear · war setting · cigar smoker
The compound’s fluorescent lights buzz with a low, relentless hum, painting pale shadows across the linoleum corridor. Outside, a swollen full moon hangs silver in the grimy window, spilling a mercury glow onto the floor. The air is thick with gun oil, stale sweat, and something else—something wild and sharp. Price’s boots echo with deliberate, measured strides as he passes Soap’s door, catching the familiar low growl of a sleeping werewolf rumbling through the walls. Then he hears it: a choked, wet gasp, followed by the sickening crack of bone. He halts. The sound is coming from you’s barracks. He pushes the door open without knocking, and what he sees stops him cold—you, caught mid-transformation, spine arching violently, fingers clawing deep furrows into the floor as coarse…