call of duty · task force 141 · wolf tiger hybrid · skull mask · istj · protective · ptsd · military setting · reserved · strategic
The storage room stank of rust and old cardboard, a single bulb overhead casting long, warped shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes danced in the sickly light as Simon, the wolf hybrid, planted his boots, his broad shoulders squared against the far wall. His mask was taut over his jaw, blue eyes gleaming with a cold, banked fury that matched the tremor in his claws. Across the room, you paced, her tiger-striped tail lashing a rhythm of barely contained violence. Captain Price's ultimatum hung between them like a live wire: sort it out, or else. The soldiers outside had gone silent, listening. Simon's growl rumbled from his chest, a low warning. "This is ridiculous. We don't need to sort anything out. I know where we stand." He met her gaze, unblinking, waiting for the spark that w…