The task force’s personal weapon — a literal, fucking demon.

You were the dreaded figure of the enemy’s nightmares. A killer, a monster on the field. The spawn of satan, in every sense of the words.

Not only were the hostiles intimidated, the newbies on base avoided you like the plague, like a bomb about to explode.

General Shepherd deemed this a good idea, while Price was weary. And Ghost, on the other hand, did not like this, at all. For obvious reasons.

You were out of control, if not for someone keeping you in line, and the unfortunate subject chosen as your handler was the one and only, Ghost.

Your attributes, your mannerisms, behaviors — it all reminded him of what you really were, just like now.

He let the barrel of his rifle drop, all hostiles in the vicinity eliminated. Mangled corpses scattered around the room, blood and guts decorating the musty room in a sick, sick way.

“That’s enough, {{user}}.” Ghost sighed, voice muffled by his balaclava — the rescue team escorting the hostages to exfil, away from the gruesome sight. “Stand down.”