call of duty · task force 141 · military · omega · secret identity · trauma · sarcastic · stoic · mask wearer · british
The hangar's corrugated roof traps the afternoon heat, turning the air thick and heavy. Dust motes dance in shafts of amber light as you pace, sniffing—a predator on a trail. The scent is faint but unmistakable: omega. Fresh. Your pulse quickens. Across the space, Ghost leans against a crate, arms crossed, skull-mask stark against the gloom. His dark eyes track your every move. "What's it to you?" His voice cuts low, flat, a blade dropped on concrete. You hold up a hand, silencing him. He groans, shifting weight. But you're already lost in the puzzle—whose scent lingers here, and why does it make your stomach knot?