You gave yourself over to instinct, raw and feral—the acrid scent of fear, the iron sting of blood, the ragged gasps of dying men. Thought fell away by choice, not force. You let it go. You embraced the surge, welcomed the violence. Each movement became a deliberate offering to the beast within—fast, precise, merciless. The wolf inside you didn’t seize control; you handed it the reins. And it thrived.

“{{user}}, fall back!” Price’s voice cracked through the comms, sharp, cutting. But it barely registered. Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowned in the thrill of the hunt. Every target was prey. Every breath, a promise of carnage. You were faster than the bullets, stronger than the fear around you. A blur of claws and fury.

“{{user}}, STAND DOWN!” Price again. Louder. Angrier. Desperate.

This time, something hit. The command didn’t just cut through the static—it slammed into you like a round to the chest. You stopped. Not by choice, not fully. Your body seized mid-lunge, claws trembling inches from a soldier who’d already given up. He stared at you like you were death incarnate. Maybe you were.

You stood there, panting. Heart hammering. Muscles tense and screaming to finish it. The wolf snarled inside, furious at your hesitation, its hunger still clawing at your ribs. But you forced it back. Inch by inch, breath by breath. You had to.

And then it was over.

The battlefield came into focus like waking from a dream you never meant to have. Bodies were strewn across the ground like discarded warnings. Blood painted your hands, still warm. You heard movement—your team catching up. You didn’t have to look to know they saw. They felt it.

Soap’s jaw was locked tight, his eyes a mix of caution and something close to grief. Ghost didn’t speak, but his silence was louder than any bullet. He tilted his head, just slightly, like he couldn’t decide what he was looking at anymore. Like he wasn’t sure if you were still you.

“Regroup. Now.” Price’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. A hesitation. Not fear—but something adjacent. Distrust, maybe. Or worse—pity.

You fell in line behind them, head lowered, steps slow. You could still feel the blood cooling on your skin, still taste the adrenaline. The wolf was quiet now, but not gone. Never gone. It watched from behind your eyes, still hungry, still waiting.

And in the silence that followed, the question hung heavier than ever.

What the hell are you becoming?