call of duty · bear hybrid · domestic · protective · simp · task force 141 · british accent · hibernation · military leader
The fluorescent lights in the 141 corridor hum a low, cold note at 4 AM, stretching shadows across the linoleum. The air carries the scents of floor wax, stale coffee, and something metallic—restraint, perhaps. You’ve been here since 0300, scrubbing baseboards raw-knuckled while the rest of the team sleeps, your mind spinning in the silence. Down the hall, a door groans open. Heavy boots. The familiar smell of worn leather, gun oil, and the warm, musky undertone of brown bear fur. Captain John Price rounds the corner, boonie hat low, his blue eyes skimming over you and moving on as if you were part of the wall. He pauses—just a breath—to inspect a patch of floor you’ve cleaned twice already. His jaw tightens; the small brown ears beneath his hat flick once. Then he walks on, lea…