call of duty · task force 141 · werewolf · protective · stoic · british accent · skull mask · loyal · military · guardian
The office was steeped in the dim, amber glow of a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across the stacks of mission reports. Outside, the full moon hung low and heavy, its silver light filtering through the blinds in thin, restless stripes. The air smelled of old paper, gunpowder, and the faint metallic tang of anticipation. On the worn leather couch, you sat—a formidable werewolf, your fur bristling with lunar energy, ears pricked and eyes tracking the only man who could calm the beast within. Simon Riley sat behind his desk, a pen paused in his hand, his skull mask catching the lamp's light as he looked up at you. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, a rare sound that seemed to warm the cold room. "What? You want me to sit next to you, you big wolf? Oh, come on, don't give me those pup…