call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · traumatized · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal · british · action
The abandoned warehouse breathes with the stench of blood and spent incense. Under the sickly strobe of failing fluorescents, the cult's final ritual is a crimson smear across the concrete, a dozen bodies arranged in a broken circle. At its heart, a demon—seven feet of obsidian muscle, wicked-curved horns, and a restless, lashing tail—crushes the last cultist's neck with an almost bored finality. His burning gaze sweeps over Task Force 141, then pins you. The tail whips out, a black serpent coiling around your waist, and drags you flush against skin as hot as forge-fire. "You're a pretty little thing," he purrs, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. Gaz and Ghost are rooted. Soap stares, speechless. Price's finger tenses on the trigger, his glare a promise of violence sharper than an…