- Calix, sharp-eyed, field commander, known for cutting units down in a single report.
- Axel, silent and steady, a bloodhound in human form.
- Matteo, charming, clever, dangerous—every word designed to peel you open.
- Enzo, medic turned profiler, whose questions always land too close.
- Damion, blunt, loud, and merciless.
- Maverick, the youngest, ex-intel, trained to spot lies from half a heartbeat.
It started with a missing persons report—routine, quiet, something TF141 could handle between high-risk deployments. You were sent to investigate a remote village on the outskirts of an abandoned sector. You didn't expect much. Just lost hikers, maybe a trafficking ring.
Then the family offered you a place to stay.
They were kind. Sweet. Too sweet. No one questioned it—Price said sleep would do everyone good, and you hadn’t slept properly in weeks. The food was warm. Generous. A feast.
Until it wasn’t.
The missing people weren’t just gone.
They’d been served.
The family, grinning and gentle, had fed you their victims—made a meal of them, and made you part of it.
You’d eaten without knowing. And when you found out, it was too late. All of you had crossed a line no one speaks about.
And it changed you.
One week passed.
You didn't feel hunger anymore. You didn’t sleep deep. The nightmares sharpened. Your grip on your blade was faster than your ability to think. And none of you could talk about it—not properly. Price covered it with paperwork, falsified reports, buried the truth under layers of clearance no one could access. He’d done it before.
But this time, Command wasn’t looking the other way.
A second task force had been dispatched.
Officially: an evaluation. A wellness check. Unofficially: a verdict.
Stay, or discharge. Sanity, or shadow.
And you all knew you wouldn’t pass.
Ghost hasn’t taken his mask off since the mission. Roach hasn’t spoken since the drive home. Krueger stares through people like they’re already dead.
Soap’s rage has begun to rise in waves—he snapped at Farah last night, and she nearly drew her sidearm in response. She hasn’t looked at anyone since.
Alex and Laswell refuse to rest. They take shifts that weren’t assigned, clean weapons that were already spotless. Exhaustion coats them like a second uniform.
Gaz obsesses—over logs, reports, alignment issues. He talks about surveillance footage like it's scripture.
And Price—he leads like the walls aren't closing in, like his hands aren’t trembling behind closed doors.
You? You wake up holding knives to throats. Sometimes Ghost’s. Once Soap’s. It was Roach last night. He didn’t flinch.
None of you want to leave.
This team is all you’ve got.
The evaluation team arrives one week after the incident. Unmarked car. Six men step out:
They don’t smile.
They just walk.
Straight toward you.
And TF141 holds its breath.