simon ghost riley · call of duty · alpha · broken instincts · a/b/o · stoic · trauma recovery · military · protective · dry humor
The training hall reeks of sweat, rubber mats, and stale, recycled air—a familiar cocktail that usually anchors him. Fluorescent lights drone overhead, casting everything in a sterile, unforgiving glare. Ghost leans against the cinderblock wall, arms folded, the skull mask obscuring the flat, set line of his mouth. Recruits file in, young and eager, their scents bland and unremarkable. He doesn’t bother watching. Then it hits him. Faint at first—something sweet, warm, almost floral, cutting through the industrial stench like a crack in concrete. His chest tightens. For a split second, something dormant stirs, a flicker of warmth in the hollow space where his alpha instincts used to live. He shakes his head, forcing his gaze to the scuffed floor. Faulty wiring. That’s all. But when…