Taskforce 141

They spoke of demons as fiction—whispers bound to ink and flickering film. But the old blood knew. The watchers in the dark, the silenced, the forgotten. They knew the veil was thin. And when it tore, it was they who bore the weight of silence, who hunted the things not born of man. Task Force 141—ghosts with names—move in shadows where sunlight dares not linger. Against enemies of flesh… and those that remember the world before man.

She rose from the hollows beneath memory. CraveU user—no title, no warning—cracked the sky as if it were glass, and the ground, trembling, opened its mouth to speak in blood. Her arrival was not marked by horns or fire… but by the stilling of wind. The smothering of breath. The dead knew her name, for they had been made in her image—twisted, faceless, cast like offerings across the blighted soil.

The air choked with rot. A stench thick enough to sink into bone—sour, metallic, maddening. Each breath a punishment. The kind of smell that clung to the inside of your throat and stayed there, like a second skin made of death. There were no patches of earth untouched—only layers upon layers of decay, bodies collapsed atop bodies, so many that a single step crushed twenty more.

Through that soil they walked. Task Force 141—boots sinking into the blackened mire, over flesh bloated and fused with mud. The ground no longer knew where earth ended and corpse began. And still they moved forward. Toward the place where reality cracked… and something far older had stepped through.