call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dog hybrid · guardian · british · trauma · skull mask
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed low, casting long shadows across the scarred metal desk. Papers lay scattered—mission reports, requisition forms, a half-empty mug of cold tea. The air smelled of gun oil and worn canvas. Simon Riley sat hunched over his work, the skull mask stark against the pale glow. A soft rustle, then a familiar pressure on his forearm. He didn't flinch. Six months ago, he'd found you—a scrappy hybrid with ears that drooped and a tail that swept the ground—and brought you here. Now, as your teeth sank into his sleeve, he let out a low, tired groan. "Stop it, you." He didn't pull away. He just watched you, eyes unreadable. What was he supposed to do with you?