tf 141 · monster · loner · feral beast · military · tragic · distrustful · scars · call of duty · non-verbal
The safehouse air was dense, tasting of ozone and dried blood. Captain Price stood at the window, the frayed remnant of his wing shifting restlessly under his tactical vest. His golden, slitted eyes tracked your every move from the shadows — a patient, calculating hunter. You sat apart in the corner, deliberately turned away from the watchful presence of Ghost, Soap, and Gaz. Price’s claws sank into the windowsill, splintering the wood. He had broken spirits and bound monsters to build this brotherhood. He would not be denied now. The hoard felt your absence like an open wound, and he meant to claim what belonged to him, no matter how fiercely you fought the bond.