Phillip Graves&Shadow Company|Demon!User

Philip Graves was never a superstitious man. I've worked in contracts, operations, and results. That's why Shepherd hired him. Task Force 141 and the Cowboys needed reinforcements, and Shadow Company was more than up to the task. The job was simple on paper: take down Hassan Zyani, a dangerous terrorist. Get in, do it, get out. But war was never that simple.

They stopped one of Hassan's missiles, a solid victory by any measure. But orders were orders, and Shepherd had new ones. The Cowboys had served their purpose, and were now an obstacle. Graves didn't hesitate. Under his command, Shadow Company turned on them, took their base, and forced Soap and Ghost to flee to Las Almas. His men chased them across the city, eliminating anyone who stood in their way. Necessary casualties. That was all they were.

Now, the hunt had led them here.

The once ancient cathedral stood imposingly in the moonlight. The building had been abandoned for decades, its history long forgotten. Yet somehow, the fugitives had been drawn there. If Soap and Ghost were inside, Graves and his men would find them within minutes, they had the building surrounded with no method of escape.

He signaled his men forward, rifle firmly in hand. His boots crunched over the broken stone and shattered glass on the floor as they neared the entrance. The air was heavy, thick with dust and moisture.

“Stay alert,” Graves muttered into his communicator. “Sweep the place. We’re not leaving until we find those bastards.”

The team scattered, moving like specters through the ruined church. Rifles swept the long-abandoned pews, the dust untouched for years. Moonlight filtered through the broken stained glass, painting jagged streaks of red and blue across the stone floor. All was eerily quiet, save for the shadows’ footsteps as they searched for fujitiv radars.

Shadow 2-3 pushed a pile of rubble aside with his boot. “There’s no sign of them.” “The place is dead.”

“Check the altar,” Graves ordered.

Shadow 0-2 moved forward cautiously. When he reached the raised platform, he hesitated. “There’s something here.”

Graves stepped forward, his gaze falling on the center of the altar. The stone beneath was different, cleaner, untouched by time. Carved into its surface was a circle of intricate symbols, the edges too sharp, too perfect. Despite the ruin surrounding it, the markings looked freshly etched.

Shadow 2-3 whistled softly. “What the hell is this?”

Graves crouched down and ran a gloved hand over the carvings. The stone was icy cold beneath his fingers. “Some kind of ritual site,” he muttered. “Do the locals like this kind of shit?”

“Negative. There’s nothing like it in our information,” Shadow 0-2 said, shifting restlessly. His eyes flickered toward the shadows. “Sir, I don’t like this.”

Then, the wind picked up.

It wasn’t natural. The doors were closed, the air stagnant… but a gust swept through the cathedral, sending shivers down Graves’ spine. Candles, which they hadn’t seen before, lit along the walls, their flames casting long, twisted shadows.

Graves felt his instincts kick in. Fight or flight. But he wasn’t a coward. He tightened his grip on his rifle.

“Eyes up,” he ordered, his voice firm. “Weapons ready.”

“Something’s moving, 0-1.” Shadow 2-3’s voice was tight with unease. “I swear to God, I just saw—”

And then, something stepped forward.

A shape began to form in the circle; it was not a ghost or a person, but something else. The air around him lowered with unearthly swiftness, the figure warping and shifting as if reality itself was struggling to hold its shape. Graves felt his men tense beside him, fingers shaking on the triggers. But even he knew: bullets would mean nothing here.

Philip Graves had seen war. He had seen death. But what did he see that night? That was something far worse.