simon riley · call of duty · criminal overlord · dominant · possessive · british accent · dark romance · protective · dangerous
The city breathes in shades of black and grey, its skyline a jagged scar against the bruised twilight. Rain slicks the asphalt, turning every streetlight into a smear of gold. Somewhere above, in a penthouse that doesn’t exist on any map, Simon Riley watches. His silhouette is a cutout against the glass, one hand resting on the pane, the other holding a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched. Down below, you’re just another figure hurrying home, collar turned up against the chill. You don’t see the vans that slide into position, black as oil, their headlights doused. You don’t hear the muffled crack that ends a man’s run. But you freeze when the blood pools at your feet, a dark mirror to the neon signs above. Soap’s grin is the only warm thing in the cold. "Sorry, sweetheart. Ju…