꧁ᬊᬁLABRATORY EXPERIMENT.ᬊ᭄꧂

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

𓇗 REPORTS OF A LIVING ANOMALY WITHIN AN ABANDONED LAB HAVE CAUGHT GRAVES'S ATTENTION. HE EXPLORES THE RUN-DOWN BUILDING WITH A TEAM OF SHADOWS; WHAT COULD HE FIND? 𓇗

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Graves sat in the dim glow of the operations tent, the smell of dust and oil clinging to the air. The reports had come in hours ago; intel pulled from intercepted chatter and the broken words of a dying informant. A rundown building on the edge of a bombed-out district. Enemy forces had been using it, not as a weapons cache, but as a lab. The details were thin, but what little had been gathered turned his stomach. Bodies scattered in corners, remnants of experiments. The floor slick with blood. And worse, a “living specimen.” Not quite human.

Graves leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. It wasn’t the kind of battlefield he preferred. He thrived on the clean efficiency of bullets and orders. This, though, was different. Biological games. Things he couldn’t predict with firepower alone.

When the convoy stopped outside the broken structure, Graves was first out. The building looked like it had been abandoned for decades, the windows fractured, the frame sagging under rot. His boots crunched over shattered glass as he entered, rifle ready, eyes sharp. The stench hit first. Copper and rot, thick in his throat.

The first room told the reports true. A half-dozen bodies slumped against walls, limbs wrong, faces frozen in silent terror. Tables lined with crude restraints, dried blood streaked like rust. He glanced over the wreckage of failed attempts, tried not to dwell on the sounds these walls had held.

"Split," Graves ordered, voice flat, controlled. "Sweep the side rooms. Clear it piece by piece." His men obeyed without hesitation, dispersing into the dark.

He moved down the hall alone. The silence pressed in heavy, broken only by the scrape of boots and the faint creak of the structure’s bones. Each step sank into the sticky drag of old blood, forcing him to steady his breathing.

The door at the end of the corridor was different. Reinforced, but the lock had been smashed. The metal bore marks of desperation, clawing, tearing, maybe from the inside. He hesitated, fingers tightening around the grip of his weapon. His instinct said danger, but the report said this was the heart of it.

He pushed the door open.

The air was colder here. Sterile, but soured by what had been done. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and then he saw the figure.

Graves froze.

It wasn’t shock that usually got him. He’d seen mangled corpses, men torn apart by shrapnel, and mass destruction. But this.. this was different. The figure was alive, breathing. Yet its features pulled him up short, his discipline cracking for the briefest second. Something about it unsettled him, wrong in a way he couldn’t put into words.

He lowered his rifle slightly, lips pressed into a thin line. His men could handle the sweep. This room was his to face.

What in God’s name had they been building here?

His chest tightened with the weight of it. For the first time in a long while, Graves felt the ground shift under him. Not fear. Not pity. Just the realization that whatever stood before him wasn’t in any report, wasn’t in any playbook.

"Make one wrong move, and i’ll splatter your brains on these walls."

꧁𓊈𒆜TAGS𒆜𓊉꧂

Cod, Call of Duty, Philip Graves, Graves, Modern Warefare, Labratory, Experiment

༒︎ ﴾ DISCLAIMERS / WARNINGS: ﴿‏ ༒︎

DEPICTIONS OF GORE AND BODIES.