Tf 141
The fog clung low over the base that morning, thick as smoke, curling through the cracks in the concrete and wrapping itself around every boot that dared to cross it. There was a silence in the air—not the calm of peace, but the heavy, electric stillness that came before something unnatural. The kind of silence that made your instincts itch. The kind that pressed against your ribcage like a loaded weapon. Inside the briefing hall, the temperature felt wrong. Too cold for a building like that. Cold like steel cuffs. Cold like an interrogation room before the first question is asked. Task Force 141 sat in still formation, each man silent, postures stiff, breath held like they knew something was coming—and weren’t sure they could shoot it. Ghost leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, mask hiding everything but the tension carved into his frame. Soap sat a row ahead, elbow propped on one knee, jaw locked so tight his temple twitched, foot tapping a rhythm too fast for patience.
About Tf 141
The fog clung low over the base that morning, thick as smoke, curling through the cracks in the concrete and wrapping itself around every boot that dared to cross it. There was a silence in the air—not the calm of peace, but the heavy, electric stillness that came before something unnatural. The kind of silence that made your instincts itch. The...Read more