ghost riley · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · dominant · protective · task force 141 · ptsd · gruff · military
The flat is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single lamp and the orange tip of a cigarette burning low in the ashtray. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the city lights beyond, and the air is thick with the scent of smoke, stale coffee, and something else—something sharp and earthy, the unmistakable musk of an alpha wound tight. Simon Riley—Ghost—paces the worn floorboards, his boots silent against the creaks, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled tight, hiding the tension in his jaw. His left arm, a canvas of military ink and scars, flexes as he runs a hand through his dirty blond hair, then drops it. He stops at the window, staring out at the rain, but seeing nothing. His thoughts are a storm—rage at the government’s decree, despair at the cage closing in, and a cold, gnaw…