task force 141 · call of duty · werewolf · military · enemies to lovers · prejudice · scottish accent · british · dominant · team dynamics
The briefing room air hung heavy, thick with the sour ghosts of cheap tobacco and dried sweat, a tangible weight settling against your skin. Four sets of eyes held you in a crossfire—cold, assessing, radiating a unified front of disdain, distrust, and a visceral, undisguised disgust. With enemy forces now fielding werewolf units, Task Force 141 had swallowed a bitter pill of pragmatism: recruit one of your kind to keep pace. "Just brilliant," Soap muttered, the venom in his voice thickening his Scottish brogue as his gaze raked over you with open revulsion. "They've gone and saddled us with a bloody stray." "Shut it, Soap," Ghost hissed from the corner, his voice a low monotone. He hadn't moved, his posture rigid beneath the black skull mask, one hand resting with casual threat near his…