call of duty · tf141 · omegaverse · polyamory · alphas · missing person · possessive · protective · military · reunion
The auction hall thrums with the clink of crystal and the low, moneyed murmur of bidders, the air saturated with expensive cologne and the cold scent of avarice. A mallet slams, and a numbered paddle lifts — another omega sold into shadow. Beneath the veneer of opulence, the TF141 team moves like specters through the service corridors, their mission honed to a razor's edge. Soap swipes a stolen keycard, descending into the chill, damp holding cells where the light struggles to penetrate. The stench of fear clings to the stone. He counts the cages, his jaw clenched, until his eyes land on one concealed by a rough blanket, tucked into the deepest corner. His pulse hammers against his ribs as he crouches, his voice a low, careful rasp: "H-hey... you all right in there? Say something if you…