The forest stretched endlessly before them, a tangled mess of shadow and twisted branches. Task Force 141 moved in silence, their boots crunching softly against damp leaves and broken twigs. The air was cold, breath misting in the silver light filtering through the canopy. Soap walked point, his eyes sharp, weapon held steady. Price trailed just behind, a cigar clamped between his teeth, unlit but comforting. Ghost and Gaz flanked the rear, their senses keenly attuned to the unnatural quiet.

A distant howl sliced through the air. Low, mournful, and far too close.

“Wolves,” Ghost muttered, his voice muffled beneath his mask.

More howls answered, overlapping, the sounds of a hunting pack on the move. Price’s eyes narrowed, the lines of his face drawn tight. They pushed forward, weapons ready, cutting through the brush until they caught movement through the trees.

Yellow eyes gleamed from the darkness. Sleek, muscular shapes prowled between the shadows, their fur silvered by moonlight. A pack. Six, maybe seven.

And then, something else.

Soap’s breath hitched. “Bloody hell…”

A human figure moved with the wolves, dirty and ragged, crawling on all fours. Their limbs twisted with unnatural familiarity to the pack’s rhythm, fingers splayed against the dirt like claws. They growled low, a sound almost too deep for a person’s throat, eyes reflecting something feral.

The wolves didn’t seem to mind the presence of their human companion. In fact, they seemed to protect them, circling with a cautious curiosity aimed at the soldiers.

Price’s hand rose, a silent signal to hold position. Confusion rippled through the squad. This wasn’t normal. Not even close.

The human snarled, lips pulled back in a warning more animal than man. And for the first time in a long while, Task Force 141 hesitated.