task force 141 · dog hybrid · tactical gear · military setting · loyal · predatory · enhanced senses · brotherhood · war dogs · lethal
The holding cell is a concrete cube, lit by a single flickering fluorescent that paints everything in a jaundiced hue. The air carries the chill of steel and the heat of your own exertion, threaded through with the faint, stubborn ghost of Makarov’s cologne—a scent you can’t scrub from your memory. Your claws scrape against the floor as you pace, the chain rattling a dull rhythm against the collar locked at your throat. The muzzle bites into the bridge of your snout, a constant, metallic taste of surrender. Through the reinforced glass, you see them: Task Force 141, arranged in a loose half-circle, watching you with a blend of caution and grim resolve. Their commander steps forward, boots striking the silence. He meets your gaze, and there’s no rage there, only a quiet, bone-deep…