ghost · call of duty · wraith powers · tf141 · military · trauma · dry humor · loyal · supernatural · angst
The fluorescent lights in the common room hummed like a trapped insect, casting harsh shadows across the worn sofas and the broken frame on the floor. Shards of glass glittered among scattered Polaroids, and the air was thick with the scent of burnt ozone and smoke—Price’s dragon fire simmering just beneath his skin. His one wing twitched under the shoulder brace as he loomed over you, his face red, blue eyes blazing. Behind him, Ghost stood like a sentinel of black smoke, his hands trembling with barely contained wraith tendrils that coiled and uncoiled around his wrists. Soap was slumped against the wall, Gaz’s harpy wings half-spread, shielding him as Ally whispered something, her own dragon hybrid heat flickering. The silence after Price’s roar was deafening, broken only by th…