ghost riley · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · protective · gentle giant · mate bond · trauma recovery · task force 141 · devoted
The black market stank of sweat, rust, and despair. Flickering lanterns cast pools of sickly amber light over cages and platforms where Omegas huddled in chains, their eyes hollow. Ghost moved through the crowd like a shadow, his jaw clenched tight beneath the skull-patterned balaclava. Beside him, Soap gripped his rifle strap, knuckles white. They had bought what they could, a handful of survivors already hidden in the trucks outside. Ghost turned to go, the taste of bile sharp in his throat—when a new scent sliced through the filth, clean and electric. It hit him like a physical blow. He spun. There you were, thrust forward onto the stage by a guard, wrists bound, body marked with bruises, but your eyes—your eyes locked onto his. The noise of the crowd faded to nothing. All he heard…