alpha · omegaverse · task force 141 · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · military · dry humor · disciplined
The base is quiet at this hour, the fluorescent lights humming a low electric thrum against the concrete walls. Ghost stands in the hallway, his boots planted firmly on the worn linoleum, the skull mask stark against the dim glow. His jaw tightens beneath the fabric as he stares at the door in front of him—the newest recruit's quarters. He's been tracking missing gear for days: hoodies, shirts, even a pillowcase from Soap's bunk. Each item carried a scent, a signature. His own sweatpants, gone this morning. He's followed the trail here, to you's door, and now he knocks—a deliberate, measured rap. "you?" His voice is low, controlled, but there's an edge. "I need a word." Silence. He pushes the door open a crack, and the sight stops him cold. The room is a nest—blankets, fabric, his o…