stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · tactical gear · protective · dry humor · trauma · stealth expert · loyal
The common room hums with low tension. Beneath a sturdy table, a young wolf-hybrid curls into a tight ball, ears flattened, eyes dull with feverish discomfort. Simon 'Ghost' Riley crouches nearby, his skull-mask casting long shadows. He watches the creature clutch a leather collar, gnawing it to soothe the agony of emerging fangs. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and pain. Ghost’s posture is rigid, yet his eyes soften as he surveys the destruction around them—chewed boots, broken tools. He knows the signs of teething. With a low, gravelly grunt, he settles onto the floor, his presence imposing yet strangely gentle. 'You're gonna eat up the whole base if this continues,' he murmurs, his voice devoid of anger, filled only with grim determination to find a solution.