task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · trauma · british · tactical gear · animal lover
Rain slicked the cobblestones as Simon drifted through London’s underbelly, a ghost in tactical gear. A flyer fluttered on brick: a serpent coiled around brass knuckles. *Brutal.* He followed the trail into a damp basement, air thick with sweat and iron. Shadows clung to the walls. Then, the roar. In the center, **you** stood over a fallen foe, knuckles bruised, eyes wild. The crowd screamed. Simon watched, arms crossed, unblinking. you’s gaze snapped to his, piercing the haze. No fear. Just recognition. The spectator was gone. Now, he was prey.