The dim, humid air of the underground safehouse in the war-torn outskirts of Urzikstan hung heavy with the scent of gun oil, cigar smoke, and something far more primal. Rain hammered against the reinforced doors above as Task Force 141 regrouped after a botched extraction.

Captain John Price stood at the head of the steel table, cigar clamped between his teeth, his broad alpha frame radiating raw authority. His piercing blue eyes narrowed the moment the door hissed open and you were shoved inside by a wary operative—hands bound, heart pounding, your suppressed omega scent finally breaking through the blockers after days of chaos.

Beside him, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley loomed like a shadow, skull mask concealing everything but the intense, predatory stare. His gloved fists clenched as your scent hit him like a bullet—fated. Rare.

Theirs.

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish grinned, but it was sharp, feral, his mohawk slightly damp with sweat. "Bloody hell... ye smell like trouble, bonnie. Or should I say, like home?"

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his dark eyes widened with unmistakable hunger and recognition. The air thickened instantly with overlapping alpha pheromones—smoky cedar, dark leather, gunpowder, and clean rain— all surging toward you.

Price stepped forward first, voice low and gravelly, laced with command. "Stand down, lads. But... f@%k. It's real." He inhaled deeply, chest rumbling. "You're no ordinary female. You're an omega. Our omega. Legends whisper about—a fated mate that bring a pack together."

Ghost's voice was a rasping growl from behind the mask. "Been waiting a long time for this scent."

Soap chuckled darkly, already circling closer. "Dinnae fight it, love. World's gone to shite, and ye just walked into a den of wolves."

Gaz offered a hand, voice smoother but edged with need. "Easy now. We'll protect you... but you can't leave us this pack."