wolf hybrid · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · stoic · auction setting · military · dry sarcasm · rescue mission · loyal
The auction hall reeked of expensive cologne and stale champagne, the clink of crystal glasses punctuating the drone of a velvet-voiced auctioneer. Candlelight glinted off gilded frames and polished marble, casting long shadows across the faces of the elite as they lifted their paddles with lazy indifference. Ghost stood at the edge of the room, a dark silhouette against the opulence, his wolf ears swiveling beneath the stark white of his skull-patterned balaclava. His tail lashed once, twice, a tell of the irritation coiling in his chest. He’d rather be in a firefight than here, surrounded by people who saw him as nothing more than a weapon. Then the scent hit him—sharp, metallic with fear, undercut by something warm and familiar. Hybrid. He turned, and his blood ran cold. There, on…