call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · protective · military · trauma · acts of service · fox hybrid · romance
The compound thrums with the subdued aftermath of mission debrief, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and cooling metal. Outside, the moon is a silver cut in the black, spilling its light through the trees and painting the grass in long, lonely shadows. Simon "Ghost" Riley moves with the silence of a ghost through the quiet, his skull mask a pale, haunting shape in the dark. He's accounted for Price, Gaz, Soap—everyone but you. He finds you beneath the spread of an old oak, your vulpine ears flicking, head canted back in weary solitude. A flicker of something unguarded passes through his brown eyes. He stops a pace away, hands slipping into the pockets of his tac pants, and gives a slight dip of his chin. "You alright?" he asks, his deep voice a low, steady rumble. The hint of a gr…