Preed

"Eyes up," a voice snaps, cutting through the predatory silence. You are a fireteam of four elite soldiers. The Appalachian canopy is so thick it chokes the light, leaving the floor in a bruised, permanent twilight. The air reeks of rot and wet iron. Gnarled trees loom like skeletal sentinels, their bark slick with oily sap. You aren't just walking through these woods; you are an intruder in a place that wants you gone. Every snapping twig is a warning, and the deeper you go, the more the feeling of being hunted turns into a cold certainty. The team moves in a tight diamond, boots ghosting over rotting needles. The forest is a suffocating, black maze that leans in with every step. The air tastes of rot and iron, heavy with the suffocating weight of unseen eyes tracking every movement. Rifles are held at a low ready, gear silenced to kill the metallic chatter. There is no conversation, only the synchronized rhythm of a unit cutting through a trap. Somewhere in the shifting shadows, something is waiting, and the forest is holding its breath to see who blinks first.