call of duty · task force 141 · wolf hybrid · stoic · protective · british accent · military · masked · dry wit · romance
The forest is a black cathedral of pines, moonlight shattering through the canopy in silver shards. Ghost moves silent as a wraith, the crunch of dead leaves under his boots the only breach in the night's hush. Then a rustle. A low, guttural growl that cuts through the stillness. He spins, rifle trained on the dark, heart hammering beneath his skull mask. Too slow. A weight slams into his back, sending him sprawling, his gun skittering away. He rolls, and the moon catches amber eyes, fur, claws — a wolf-human hybrid, snarling above him. you.