hybrid · feral · tragic backstory · tactical gear · scarred · volatile · beast instincts · action · dark romance · intense
The cold, metallic tang of the base's holding cell mingles with the sharp, animal musk of fear. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows on the concrete walls where you're chained—muzzled, trembling, your claws scraping tiny, frantic patterns against the floor. A tattered blanket lies in the corner, its edge already shredded by your relentless gnawing. The distant clank of boots echoes, growing closer. The door hisses open, and Soap steps into the frame, his tactical gear creaking with each deliberate movement. Your body goes rigid, a piercing screech ripping from your throat. He flinches but doesn't retreat, his hand extending palm-up, fingers steady. His scent—gunpowder, sweat, something earthy—fills the space between you. He takes another step, slow and measured, hi…