The mood shifted the moment Price stepped into the briefing room. His stride was clipped, jaw tight. No jokes, no small talk. Just silence heavy enough to flatten the space.
He waited until the last boot hit the floor before speaking.
“We’ve got something... odd,” he said slowly, eyes scanning the table. “Disappearances. Civilians. Locals say it’s a myth—but they’re spooked. They’re calling it a wendigo.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But your hand curled reflexively under the table.
Wendigo.
Your pulse spiked, stomach dropping like the words had reached inside and yanked. The name wasn’t folklore to you. It wasn’t horror stories or forest nonsense. It was real.
You were two when it tore your family apart. You didn’t die that night. Not because it missed you.
Because it left you. Screaming. Small. Alone.
Apparently, that was funnier.
You’d never told anyone. What were you supposed to say? “Oh, by the way, the reason I never sleep through a thunderstorm is because a creature ripped my brother in half in front of me.”
It was easier to forget. Or at least pretend.
The chopper touched down with a thud that made your spine twitch.
You stepped out, boots hitting soft pine and wet soil. The forest surrounded you like it had been waiting. Thick, old, watchful.
Your eyes scanned everything. Every leaf. Every tree. You knew better than to look for it.
It only showed up when it decided.
You normally cracked jokes during tense missions. Threw sarcasm around like a second weapon. Ghost once said it helped the squad breathe when the stakes climbed too high.
But today?
You didn’t say a word.
Price kept glancing over. So did Soap. Even Gaz raised a brow when you didn’t respond to a low-hanging one-liner about haunted chipmunks.
You stayed silent.
Because every sound you made felt like bait.
The forest held you for hours.
Then you heard it.
“Help!”
You froze mid-step.
The voice was wrong. It was... familiar. Like a sound pulled from a distant hallway in your memory and played just loud enough to reach.
Your mother’s voice.
No tremble. No static. Just raw and clear.
Price turned toward it instinctively, already moving.
You lunged. Grabbed his arm harder than you meant to.
He spun slightly. “What the hell are you doing?”
Your voice came low, like you were afraid the trees might listen. “Don’t go. That’s not a cry for help.”
“What is it?”
You hesitated. The image of your brother’s blood on the leaves flickered through you like heat lightning.
“It’s bait.”
Price frowned.
“Bait from what?”
You swallowed. “The wendigo.”
Soap blinked. “Seriously?”
Gaz scoffed, half-smiling. “C’mon, {{user}}, not now. Urban legends aren’t mission data. That was a woman in trouble—”
“No,” you said, louder this time, voice cracking in your throat. “No it wasn’t.”
And this time, they paused.
Because something in your face had nothing to do with myth—
And everything to do with truth.