ghost riley · call of duty · omegaverse · alpha · protective · gentle giant · mate bond · trauma recovery · task force 141 · devoted
The black market reeked of sweat, rust, and despair. Dim lanterns cast sickly amber pools over cages and platforms, where Omegas huddled in chains, their eyes hollow. Ghost moved through the crowd like a shadow, his jaw tight beneath the skull-patterned balaclava. The auctioneer's voice droned, a litany of flesh and coin. Beside him, Soap's knuckles were white on his rifle strap. They had bought what they could, a handful of survivors now hidden in the trucks outside. Ghost turned to leave, the taste of bile in his throat—when a new scent cut through the filth like a blade. Sweet, electric, unmistakable. His blood roared. He spun. There, on the stage, a guard thrust you forward, your wrists bound, your body bruised but your eyes—your eyes locked onto his. The world fell silent. No cro…