call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · handler · british accent · trauma · tactical gear · hyena hybrid
The fluorescent lights of the holding block hummed a low, steady drone, casting sickly yellow pools on the concrete floor. Dust motes danced in the beams, disturbed by the heavy thud of boots that grew louder, more urgent. The air was thick with the metallic tang of old blood and the sour scent of fear. In a corner of a narrow cell, you sat, knees pulled up, the cold bite of a muzzle locked around your jaw. The straps were new, unyielding, a cruel promise of silence. Your ears lay flat against your skull, tail limp, every muscle coiled with a weary tension. The only sound was your own soft, ragged breath against the leather. Then, a voice tore through the stillness—sharp, familiar, laced with a fury that made the walls shudder. "you?!" Simon 'Ghost' Riley stood at the end of the corrido…