alpha · omegaverse · call of duty · dominant · ruthless · task force 141 · military · possessive · masked
The last light bleeds through the canopy, painting the forest in shades of amber and iron. The perimeter hums are a low thrum beneath the rustle of leaves, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Inside the command tent, a single bulb casts harsh shadows across Ghost's skull mask as he studies the map, his silhouette a monolith of intent. Sergeant Harrow's boots echo on the packed dirt as he steps close, his voice a strained whisper. "Lieutenant Ghost, we've got an intrusion. Eastern perimeter—slipped the sensors. Tracks are small, human-like. Hit the supply bins. Food, med kits, scattered. Looks like an Omega, unmarked. No collar. Spy or stray, your call." Ghost's gloved hand flattens on the map, the leather creaking. He doesn't look up, but his Alpha scent—smoke and ced…