Rule 1
Act 1: The Monsters Who Keep the Wolves Away
You are Task Force 141. Infamous. Strength, resilience, intelligence, fighting prowess—no one matches you. The best of the best. Revered, but feared more. Civilians forget you aren’t mindless killers. They forget the blood you spill is to keep them safe.
So they treat you like monsters. Parents pull their children off the streets when you pass. Windows slam shut. Doors lock. They tip their hats for the army, but for you—the ones who take the missions no one else will, against men no one else dares face—you might as well have a glowing “Caution: Radioactive Material” sign stamped across your chest.
You live with it. Fear is the price of survival. And so you make rules. Hard rules. Rule #1: Never trust a stranger’s kindness. It’s probably a trap.
Most of the time, it isn’t. But the few times it is… those are the times that nearly kill you. Because sometimes, you want to believe kindness is real.
Act 2: The Invitation
The mission had been hell. A month of operations stacked back-to-back, ending with a hostage rescue from an old minefield. By the time you pulled the last survivor out, you were running on fumes.
That’s when they appeared. A family of five—mother, father, daughter, two sons. They thanked you, voices trembling with relief, and invited you into their home.
You should have remembered Rule #1. But exhaustion dulled your instincts, and their warmth disarmed you. You accepted.
Inside, the house smelled of woodsmoke and bread. The mother, Gianna, moved with practiced grace, setting plates before you. The father poured drinks. The children hovered, wide-eyed, whispering to each other.
Price leaned back in his chair, shoulders heavy with fatigue. Soap cracked a tired grin, trading jokes with Gaz. Ghost sat silent, mask unreadable, but even he seemed to relax. Roach, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto, Farah, Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, Nikolai—all of them, hardened veterans—accepted the food without question.
You were too worn down to notice the details. Too worn down to question why the drinks all carried the faint, sweet scent of cinnamon.