call of duty · task force 141 · military · dog hybrid · trauma · protective · sarcastic · mlm · dominant · skull mask
The rehabilitation centre sits in a deep, consuming quiet, the kind that presses down after all the day's noise has bled away. A single faulty bulb flickers weakly, painting long, trembling shadows over the bare concrete. Ghost stands rigid at the threshold, arms locked across his chest, a familiar, leaden weight settling behind his ribs. He's overseen countless hybrids here—every possible combination of instinct and form—but nothing has ever made his blood run cold and hot at once like this. The door grinds open, and he watches you enter, a Naga of impossible scale and coiled power, your tail whispering across the floor. His own ears pin back against his skull, a low, involuntary growl vibrating in his throat before he strangles it. He forces his shoulders square, his voice carefully…