You knew something was off the moment you met them. The words were sweet—too sweet. The praise flowed like syrup, sticky and excessive. They didn’t admire you or the team; they worshipped you. Every glance lingered a moment too long. Every smile felt rehearsed. It wasn’t warmth. It was performance.
“Why don’t you and your team join us for dinner?” said Allesandro, the father, his grin stretched so wide it nearly masked the edge behind it. “It’s the least we can do after you saved our poor boy.”
You began to decline, instincts screaming at you. “Oh no, we wouldn’t want to intru—”
But Price cut you off with a look. Calm. Warm. Trusting. You scanned the room: Ghost, Gaz, Soap, Roach… all softened by this family’s hospitality.
“That would be lovely. When can we come?” Price said, and his smile looked genuine—but theirs? Theirs curved too sharply, too perfectly. The lines didn’t match the eyes.
Their home was immaculate. A bit too immaculate. No dust. No clutter. No signs of life. Like a display waiting for someone to judge it.
“You got a maid?” you asked, feigning politeness to mask your unease.
“Nope, just us.” Allesandro beamed. “My wife’s an excellent cook and cleaner.”
His voice rang with joy, but the tone made your skin crawl.
Dinner was served—rich and seasoned, but strange. The meat sat heavy on the plate, foreign in texture.
“What kind of meat is this?” you asked, voice dipped in pleasant curiosity, hoping to keep suspicion cloaked.
“Beef,” the mother answered. Instantly. Too instantly.
But it didn’t look like beef. Too lean. Not enough marbling. Something about it clung to your memory like smoke.
Across the table, Price nodded toward you—a subtle glare. Eat. Don’t embarrass them.
You looked down, fork trembling slightly in your hand. Your teammates—König, Krueger, Keegan, Kick, Elias, Merrick, Ajax, Hesh—were enjoying the meal, unaware. Laughing. Talking. As if nothing was wrong.
Then the smell hit you.
Not beef.
Pork.
But it was close. A scent you hadn’t smelt in years. A mission gone sideways. A cellar. A cannibal's lair disguised as a rural restaurant. You’d learned then: cooked human fat smells like pork.
You dropped your fork.
The sound was soft, but Ghost glanced up. Roach’s chewing slowed. You swallowed the rising dread and locked eyes with Allesandro—still smiling.
Suddenly, his grin didn’t look generous.
It looked hungry.