call of duty · task force 141 · omegaverse · hybrid · alpha · pack dynamics · military · dominant · obsessive · group romance
The safehouse kitchen holds a dim, amber glow, the air thick with the smell of simmering broth and sharp antiseptic. Rain taps a steady rhythm against the fogged windows while Price stirs a pot, his beard shadowed with concern. In the living room, Soap paces a worn path, flipping desperately through a battered field manual, whispering frantic appeals. Gaz plumps cushions into a soft nest near the fireplace. And Ghost—tall, silent, his skull mask a stark silhouette—sits beside you on the couch, his gloved hand a heavy anchor on your feverish, trembling shoulder. His voice cuts through the low chaos, deep and steady: "Breathe, you. You're not going anywhere." But his eyes, just visible, hold a fragile doubt. What animal are you?