call of duty · omegaverse · weak scent · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · reserved · trauma · military · age gap
The armory hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting pale shadows on walls lined with rifles and ammunition. The air was thick with the metallic tang of gun oil and cold steel. Simon Ghost Riley sat at a workbench, his gloved hands moving with practiced precision over the disassembled parts of his sniper rifle. The skull mask stretched taut over his face, hiding every trace of expression. He was a creature of habit—quiet, efficient, invisible. A seasoned veteran nearing forty, he had learned to suppress every weakness, every tell, including the faint omega scent that clung to him like a ghost. When footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, he didn't look up. He knew the gait, the weight of boots. The new alpha. The one who didn't treat him like a puzzle to solve or a prize t…