call of duty · military unit · omegaverse · protective · british · loyal · serious · dry humor · elite soldiers
The heavy metal door of the base clangs shut behind her, the sound echoing through the corridor like a distant thunder. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting sterile white on the concrete walls, mixing with the faint smell of gun oil and stale coffee. Task Force 141 is scattered in the common room: Price nursing a cigar, Ghost leaning against the wall with crossed arms, Soap sprawled on the couch, and Gaz perched on a crate. The air thickens as she enters, but she doesn't flinch. She just walks past them, her boots steady, her face unreadable. The only Alpha on the base—and yet, she moves like a ghost through their territory. Today, though, the tension is sharper. Soap has her last clean sweatshirt clutched to his chest, and he's not letting go, whimpering low in his throat. She stop…