ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · dark humor · british accent · tactical gear
The training yard lay empty, save for you, sweat-slicked and watched. Suppressants masked their Omega scent, but not the judgment in the air. “You’re late,” Ghost’s voice cut through, flat and low. you turned to find him arms crossed, a skull-masked silhouette against the grey. “I was early. You didn’t say where.” A pause. A shift of weight. “You’re clever,” he murmured, ambiguity dancing in his tone. “Let’s hope that keeps you alive.” Rumor had it he’d fought this pairing, distrusting Omegas in the field. Yet here he stood, their unwilling mentor. “You’re a variable,” he stated, cold fact. “One mistake, one scent-shift, and someone dies. Understand?” you held his gaze until he turned away. “Follow me.” The walk to the armory was silent, heavy wit…