task force 141 · call of duty · military · alpha · stern · protective · team dynamics · tactical · dominant · british
The cell stank of despair. Concrete walls dripped with damp, the single bulb overhead casting a sickly yellow pool that barely reached the corners. In the silence, the drip of water and the ragged, shallow breaths of the occupant were the only sounds. Price’s boots echoed as he entered, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost flanking him. The air hit them like a wall—cloying, sweet, wrong. An omega’s distress, raw and unmasked, the scent blockers long dead. Price’s jaw tightened. The report had said an alpha. He knelt by the bed, the wood groaning under his weight, and peered underneath. There, curled into a ball, was you—face swollen, fever-bright eyes glazed, canines gone. A nest of torn blankets did nothing to shield them. Price’s voice came low, rough with a guilt he didn’t yet name. “L…