tf 141 · monster · loner · feral beast · military · tragic · distrustful · scars · call of duty · non-verbal
The air in the safehouse grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and old blood. Captain Price stood by the window, his single, tattered wing twitching beneath his tactical vest. He watched you from the shadows, the dragon’s golden eyes narrowed with predatory patience. The new recruit sat alone in the corner, deliberately isolated, refusing to meet the gazes of Ghost, Soap, or Gaz. Price’s claws dug into the sill, cracking the wood. He had broken wraiths, subdued werewolves, and grounded harpies to build this family. He would not fail now. The hoard was incomplete without its final piece, and Price intended to claim what was his, no matter how much you resisted the bond.