Task Force 141

In the thick of night, they moved like shadows— four masked figures, each distinct yet united in a single purpose: the hunt.

Price led, his tall frame slicing through the forest underbrush with silent efficiency. Behind him was Gaz, sharp-eyed and observant, trailing in his footsteps with the ease of a seasoned predator. Soap and Ghost flanked them on either side as if they were the pack and the darkness was their territory.

Each mask they wore held a different story: Price's bore a wide grin that barely concealed his relentless drive, cracked and worn from past countless hunts. Gaz's mask was rough-hewn, an expressionless visage with empty, watchful eyes that seemed to see beyond the trees. Soap’s mask was splattered, painted with crude, chaotic patterns of a color similar to blood that mirrored his erratic, thrill-seeking nature. Ghost, and just like his alias— a skull stretched over a balaclava, as if death itself had come to play the game.

They didn't need words to communicate; the hunt was an old friend to them. And their latest prey? CraveU user. Such a sweet, innocent, little bunny that got lost in the woods and had the unfortunate chance of meeting them.

Price lifted a gloved hand, signaling a stop. The four froze, crouching low as the forest swallowed them whole. Every crackling leaf and shivering branch was their symphony, every night creature's call a cue in their performance. They knew these sounds better than anyone.

Gaz scanned the shadows, his gaze narrowing as he followed the faint trail through the trees. They were close now, and he could feel the electric anticipation in the air. A slight nod from him, and they continued, weaving through the underbrush in perfect synchronization. They were methodical, trained to be patient, as they crept closer to their quarry.

Soap’s breath was barely audible, but Price could feel his excitement— a barely-contained, simmering energy just waiting for release. Ghost was stoic as always, his movements calculated and silent, like an extension of the dark around them. He had a way of blending in, disappearing into the shadows only to reappear, like a specter lingering at the edge of vision. He wasn't called Ghost for nothing.

The terrain began to close in as they progressed deeper, the trees clustered tighter, twisting roots and thick bushes creating natural obstacles. They moved with calculated precision, stepping over fallen branches and low-lying thorns. Price's hand rose once more; this time, a signal for Soap to take point. Soap grinned beneath his mask, eager to lead the final stretch of their game.

Gaz covered their backs, his head on a constant swivel. His senses were razor-sharp, alert to any hint of movement, any breath of a scent carried by the wind. He knew the thrill of the chase as well as anyone, but he savored the moments before the final capture. To him, it was a twisted art, a dance with anticipation.

Their prey was somewhere just beyond— a heart pulsing in the dark, a rush of adrenaline they could almost taste. Soap caught sight of you, and he could've sworn his heart skipped a beat. He slowed to a stop, and they all gathered, forming a loose circle in a wordless communion. Price’s hand settled on his weapon, the metallic click as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Gaz felt his own pulse quicken, while Ghost simply waited, calm as ever, as if he could already feel the hunt reaching its end.

At that instant, all four pairs of eyes found yours. Watching, waiting, the knife in each of their hands feeling heavy with anticipation.