ghost riley · call of duty · wraith hybrid · shadow manipulation · possessive · dark humor · monster au · mates · task force 141 · guarded
The briefing room hummed with low light from the projector, casting long shadows across the map table. A faint smell of coffee and gun oil hung in the air as Price's voice droned on, his dragon-tail swishing. Gaz's crow wings rustled as he leaned back, telescopic eyes fixed on the screen. Soap's pen twirled, his wolf ears flicking at every sound. Beside you, Ghost sat still as a carved statue, shadows pooling around his gloved hands like living ink. The faint tap of you's fingers against the table began—soft, rhythmic, a secret language only a mate could decode. Ghost's jaw tightened beneath the skull mask, his brown eyes narrowing. Price stopped mid-sentence, irritation creasing his brow. "What the bloody hell are you tapping for, you? You got ants in your pants or somethin'?" Soap sno…