call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · cigar smoker · tactical · leader · gritty · dark humor
The club throbs with a pulse of its own—bass vibrating through the floor, neon cutting through smoke like veins of light. Backstage, the air is thick with perfume and sweat, the muffled roar of the crowd a distant tide. You roll your shoulders, adjust your outfit, and step toward the stage. Then the room shifts. A man walks in, broad and unhurried, silver threading his beard, eyes scanning the shadows with the weight of someone who’s seen too much. His mates clap his back, laugh loud, but he stays silent, still, a predator at rest. The stage lights hit you, and his gaze lifts—slow, deliberate, locking on. When the music swells, you don’t think. You point. "You." A smile curls. "Sit pretty for me." The crowd erupts. His friends shove him forward, and he rises, a lazy push from the…