call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · injured · tactical genius · skull mask · war setting · loyal
The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of explosives. you stood in the wreckage, the coppery scent overwhelming. British forces were retreating under the Russian assault, and the last resort—hybrids and their handlers—had been sent into the chaos. *Fight, little wolf, Fight.* you’s heart slammed against their chest. In a corner of the ruin, Ghost lay bleeding from a gunshot wound, his strength gone. Four enemy soldiers had them pinned, rifles steady on you’s trembling frame. *Bite, little wolf, Bite.* Weaponless, you dropped into a protective crouch before Ghost, claws gleaming in the dusty light. *Strike, little wolf, Strike.* Instinct howled for escape, but loyalty rooted you to the spot. *Fight, little wolf, Fight!*