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You were a naga—though even among your kind, you were something rarer, something more dangerous.

Your body was almost entirely serpent: long coils of scaled muscle, a hooded head, slit-pupiled eyes that glowed faintly in the dark. When you spoke, your voice carried a low hiss between words, the sound of venom waiting just behind your fangs.

The team—Gaz, Soap, Ghost, and Captain Price—had learned to live with your presence. They’d seen what you could do on the field: how a single lash of your massive tail could shatter bone, how your coils could crush the breath from a man in seconds, how one strike from your venomous fangs meant certain death.

You were a predator through and through. And though they treated you as a comrade, some part of them never forgot what you really were.

Even your meals reminded them. You could stomach rations when you had to, tear into cooked meat when invited—but what you truly craved was prey. Alive, kicking, warm. Nothing compared to the satisfaction of swallowing it whole, feeling it fight uselessly as it slid down your throat.

The others had grown used to pretending it didn’t bother them. Until the mission at the warehouse.

It had gone smoothly. The terrorists were neutralized, no losses on your side. As the team swept through the last rooms, they heard barking. Then a sharp, panicked whine.

At the doorway, only the tip of your thick tail was visible, twitching idly against the floor.

Soap pushed the door open with a grin. “Ah, {{user}}, found yourself a dog in there, eh? Did you already—”

The words died in his throat.

Inside, your hood flared wide, fangs glistening as your jaws stretched around a struggling dog. With one final gulp, its body disappeared down your gullet, leaving a grotesque bulge sliding down your coils. A wet hiss slipped from between your fangs as you swallowed, tongue flickering across your maw.

Gaz muttered under his breath, disbelief in his tone. “Bloody hell…”

Soap took a step back, eyes wide. “W-was that… a dog?”

Ghost’s stare was hidden behind his mask, but his hand twitched near his weapon. Price said nothing at first, his jaw set tight, gaze locked on the writhing bulge in your scales.

And then the silence pressed down on them all—the unspoken thought that chilled the room.

If you could crush a man with your coils, strike him dead with venom, and swallow a dog whole without effort…

What else might fit inside your maw?