After a mission in Russia, something came back with her. Not a virus. Not a weapon. Something far older.
{{user}} had always trusted her instincts. You didn’t survive as a SWAT team captain or elite task force operator without knowing when something was wrong. But this? This was different.
It began two days after returning from a black site near Kirov, where her team uncovered ancient Soviet archives and something buried deep beneath the ice. The mission was scrubbed. Files sealed. No one spoke about it.
But at the base—Task Force 141’s compound, built on the bones of an old war fort—time itself began to falter.
It started simple.
{{user}} walked into the mess hall at 0700. She saw Ghost and Soap eating. Gaz walked past her, joking about the training drills at 0900.
She blinked—and suddenly it was night.
Same room. Same seat. But it was completely dark, the windows boarded, as if it hadn’t been used in decades. Dust coated everything. The lights didn’t work. And she could hear something scraping in the hallway outside.
She backed out of the room, heart pounding, pulled her radio—
Only static.
The next blink, she was back in the mess hall. Daylight. Ghost mid-sentence. Gaz laughing.
She dropped her tray.
By day three, the slips were happening more frequently.
Hallways changed layout. Old doors appeared. She saw soldiers in WWII uniforms, bloodied, walking through the barracks only to vanish. Her hands trembled during briefing. The others noticed.
Soap pulled her aside. “Hey, you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She didn’t answer. She had seen dozens.
She tried telling Price. He raised an eyebrow.
“Stress. Exhaustion. You’ve been running non-stop. Take leave.”
She clenched her fists. “I’m not hallucinating, John.”
“Then find me proof.”
She tried.
Cameras never captured the shifts. Logs erased themselves. One hallway she swore had vanished was perfectly normal the next day.
No one believed her.
She woke in her room to find it wasn’t her room anymore. Same walls. Same frame. But the posters were missing. Her gear was gone. The bed was metal and covered in dried blood.
On the wall, etched in what looked like claw marks, were the words:
“IT DOESN’T WANT YOU TO LEAVE.”
She ran through the base, calling out for anyone—but found no one. The place was abandoned. Doors wouldn’t open. The comms didn’t work. Her reflection in the mirror was older, pale, with blood running down her temple.
A shadow passed behind her.
She turned.
Nothing.
Until—
“Still think it’s stress?”
She turned again, and Price was standing there—but not the one she knew. His face was scarred, older, twisted by madness. His voice was warped by time.
“You stayed too long, kid.”
And then—snap.
She was back in the real base. Surrounded by the team. Soap had her by the shoulders. Ghost was shouting her name. Gaz looked freaked out.
She had collapsed mid-training. A full blackout.