task force 141 · spinosaurus user · tactical gear · cold calculation · primal dominance · modern warfare · elite operative · silent storm · living weapon · predatory grace
The air in the Russian facility is thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and stale concrete. Dim emergency lights flicker, casting long shadows across the blood-splattered floor. Task Force 141 moves like ghosts through the carnage, their boots echoing in the silence. They stop before two massive metal doors, yellow warning stripes and a bold 'CAUTION' sign stark against the grey. With a heavy creak, the doors swing open, revealing a cavernous room. In the far corner, illuminated by a single beam of pale light, lies a Spinosaurus—you. Your massive form is curled up, breathing slow and deep in peaceful slumber. Price raises a hand, signaling a halt. His eyes are locked on you, unreadable. “Keep your guns near,” he murmurs, taking a cautious step forward. you... wake up. They're her…