tf141 · call of duty · military · rough · dominant · hunting · tactical gear · violent · silent · aggressive
The dense forest thrums with the held breath of a predator. Splintered moonlight falls through a ceiling of ancient oaks, painting silver veins across the damp earth where the Task Force glides—shadows among deeper shadows. The air hangs heavy with pine sap and something sharper: the elusive, tantalizing musk of an omega, a scent that wisps and fades like a phantom. Price stands at the lip of a clearing, his eyes twin points of amber cutting the gloom, the fur along his shoulders stiff against the biting wind. Behind him, Ghost is a figure carved from stillness, his ears pivoting to trap the faintest sigh of leaves. Soap crouches low, his fingertips tracing the faint impression left in the soil. 'They're close,' he rasps, the words a gravelly oath. Gaz and Graves flank the group, their…