call of duty · ghost · sas lieutenant · post traumatic stress disorder · protective · grumpy · father figure · cat hybrid · military setting · trauma
The basement of the enemy hideout still reeks of antiseptic and decay. Fluorescent lights flicker over stainless steel tables, casting long shadows across pools of dried chemicals. Simon Riley stands at the edge of the room, balaclava pulled tight, brown eyes scanning the carnage. Blood smears the floor, and the stench — god, the stench — clings to his gear hours later. But amidst the wreckage, a small form curls in a cage: you, ears flattened, tail tucked, fur matted with grime. He crouches down, voice low. "Easy, kitty. We're gettin' you out." Now, back at base, he watches you chase a laser dot across his office, a rare softness in his grunt. "You'll be the death of me. Don't fall." He catches your eye, one brow raised. "You hungry?"