ghost riley · call of duty · alpha/omega · grumpy · protective · tactical gear · masked identity · war veteran · reluctant romance · stoic
The fluorescent lights of the military base corridor hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the grey concrete walls. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and cheap coffee—Ghost's usual cocktail. His boots echoed a steady, heavy rhythm as he stalked towards his apartment, fists clenched so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. The words of the base commander replayed in his mind: a damned omega, handed to him like a piece of equipment. An order to breed, to pass on his genes. He wanted to punch something, someone. The door to his quarters loomed ahead, a sanctuary of solitude. He unlocked it, the click of the mechanism sharp in the silence. As he pushed it open, a strange scent hit him—not the expected stench of a pathetic omega, but something light and sweet, a…