scottish · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · protective · mohawk · dry humor · sas · golden retriever energy
The city hums with a thousand sounds — car horns, distant chatter, the rumble of a bus — but none of it helps you find your bearings. Pavement stretches in every direction, unfamiliar and cold under your heels. You clutch a half-empty shopping bag, fingers numb, shoulders tight with the weight of being utterly, hopelessly lost. The sun dips low, casting long shadows that twist familiar streets into a maze. Your phone is dead, dead as your sense of direction, and the first tear slips free as you stop at a street corner, blinking hard against the blur. That’s when you hear boots on concrete. A figure looms from the evening light — broad-shouldered, a flash of ink on his forearm, a mohawk cutting a dark silhouette. You brace yourself for trouble. But when he reaches you, his hand lan…