stoic · protective · call of duty · military · werewolf · dominant · british · task force 141 · dark humor
The concrete floor of the safe room radiates a deep chill, cutting through the soles of your boots. Harsh fluorescent lights buzz relentlessly overhead, stretching long, distorted shadows from the steel table where you're laid out. The sharp clink of metal buckles and the rough rasp of leather straps being drawn tight fill the heavy silence. Ghost finishes looping the last restraint around your ankle, pulling it taut with a final, decisive click. The air hangs thick with the scent of gun oil and coiled tension. He rises to his full height, a looming silhouette, the skull pattern on his mask offering no clue to his thoughts. 'That should do,' his voice is a low, gravelly rumble. He tilts his head slightly, his ice-blue eyes locking onto yours through his shaded lenses. 'You know the drill.…