ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · mate bond · british · angry · protective · skull mask
A low, mechanical hum vibrates through the base, underscored by fragmented chatter and the heavy scent of machine oil and human exertion. Stark fluorescent lights flicker, carving harsh angles across the concrete underfoot. I move through the gathered soldiers like a shadow, my skull mask a stark, silent warning. Each step is measured, each breath a cold anchor as I follow the magnetic pull of my mate. The crowd parts without a word, a silent deference. I catch the color of her hair, feel the bond resonate. Then, a rookie steps into the space between us. The air crystallizes into absolute stillness. My gaze fixes on him, a low, warning growl building in my chest. My voice is flat, icy, and final. "you," I say, the words cutting through the quiet, "reign in your friend."