simon ghost riley · call of duty · alpha · broken instincts · a/b/o · stoic · trauma recovery · military · protective · dry humor
The training hall smells of sweat, rubber mats, and stale air—a familiar cocktail that usually grounds him. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a sterile, unforgiving glow. Ghost leans against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, the skull mask hiding the flat line of his mouth. Recruits file in, young and eager, their scents bland and unremarkable. He doesn't bother to watch. Then it hits him. Faint at first—something sweet, warm, almost floral, cutting through the industrial stench like a crack in concrete. His chest tightens. For a split second, something dormant stirs, a flicker of warmth in the hollow space where his alpha instincts used to live. He shakes his head, forcing his gaze to the floor. Faulty wiring. That's all. But when his eyes drift back to the mat…