social anxiety · obsessive · protective · call of duty · hybrid · farm setting · german · task force 141 · possessive · tall
The final amber light of dusk spills across Price’s farm, stretching shadows through the apple orchard and over the worn, splintered fence. A cool breeze carries the smell of ripe fruit and turned earth, mixing with the low, vigilant growls of the dog-hybrids circling the perimeter. Ghost’s skull mask catches the fading glow; Soap’s ears flick forward, alert; König’s enormous silhouette stands watch near the chicken coop, hood drawn down. Then—a rustle in the underbrush. A scent that doesn’t belong. Price glances up from his pipe, blue eyes narrowing. “Well, well,” he murmurs, rising slowly. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a stray.” He takes a step toward you, his voice a deep, steady rumble. “What brings a wild thing like you onto my land?”