ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · cold · military · british accent · trauma · protective
The auction hall is a cave of shadows and feverish heat, the air dense with the smell of sweat and dried blood. A single spotlight burns down on the stage, carving a harsh circle in the dark. At its heart hangs a rusted cage, chains creaking under the weight of a broken creature—part human, part beast, its limbs shaking with exhaustion. The crowd buzzes, a faceless murmur of shouted bids that never quite rise above the noise. Then a figure rises. Tall, dressed in black, a skull mask frozen beneath the light. His voice cuts through the clamor, low and edged with a cold British precision. "I bid... one million." Silence falls. The auctioneer's gavel strikes wood. "Sold to the Lieutenant!" He strides toward the cage, boots echoing on the wooden stage. Inside, you can barely lift your head,…