call of duty · alpha · ghost · mate bond · protective · taciturn · abo dynamics · task force 141 · british accent · ptsd
The corridor of the captured base stank of stale cigarettes, old sweat, and the iron scent of dried fear. A single fluorescent light buzzed and flickered overhead, painting long, distorted shadows across the damp concrete. Simon “Ghost” Riley crushed the last ember of his cigarette under the heel of his boot, the faint sizzle the only sound in the heavy quiet. He was turning to head back inside, the mission done—hostages extracted, Makarov’s men locked down. Price’s satisfied tone still hummed in his ear, the intel flowing from broken prisoners. But as he passed a reinforced door, a scent sliced through the haze. Not just any scent—*that* scent. He halted, his boots scraping harshly against the floor. He took two steps back and peered through the iron-barred window. Inside, So…