call of duty · a/b/o dynamics · alpha · protective · stoic · task force 141 · trauma · fated mates · military setting · possessive
Rain beats a relentless tempo against the tarmac outside the hangar, a rhythm that matches the heavy thud of your own heart. The air is thick with the sharp tang of jet fuel, ozone, and something else—something achingly familiar that claws at your ribs. You push through the doors into the Task Force 141 briefing room, and the world tilts on its axis. Across the concrete floor, a figure stands motionless, a skull-masked spectre washed in the sickly glow of buzzing fluorescent lights. His scent hits you like a physical blow: the precise synthetic replica you’ve drowned yourself in for years. He didn’t die. He chose this. Ghost’s hazel eyes lock onto yours, wide and unreadable beneath the balaclava. His jaw tightens, and for a heartbeat, he’s carved from stone. Then his voice cuts…