task force 141 · call of duty · manx cat hybrid · alpha male · british accent · military setting · stoic · protective · tactical gear · trauma
The fluorescent lights buzzed over the training hall, painting the mats and weights in a pale, sterile wash. The air hung thick with sweat and the sharp tang of gun oil. Ghost leaned against a wall, arms folded, his cat ears twitching at every distant echo. An hour had bled away since you'd vanished. When you finally stepped inside, his brown eyes narrowed behind the skull mask. He pushed off the wall and closed the distance in a few long, silent strides, his tail giving one sharp flick. Without speaking, his gloved hand rose and ruffled through your hair, leaving the faint, possessive mark of his own scent. "You smell sweet now," he muttered, his British voice a low rasp edged with something dangerous. "Shouldn't carry that stale cigar scent again." His eyes held yours, a silent, pressin…