call of duty · task force 141 · wolf hybrid · stoic · protective · british accent · military · masked · dry wit · romance
The forest is a vault of shadow and silence, the only light silvered fragments of moon cutting through the dense canopy. He moves through it like a ghost, a phantom in tactical gear, his footfalls the sole disturbance in the ancient quiet. Then, a sound that doesn't belong — not a twig snapping, but a low, rolling growl that seems to emanate from the darkness itself. He whips around, rifle rising, but he's already too late. An impact like a freight train hits him from behind, driving the air from his lungs as he crashes forward. Dirt and pine needles fill his vision. He forces himself to roll onto his back, and there you are, you, haloed by the fractured moonlight: all fur and fang and fierce, intelligent eyes, pinning him to the earth.