task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · trauma · british · tactical gear · animal lover
Rain traced silver lines down the cobblestones as Simon moved through London’s underworld, a phantom in tactical black. A flyer, pinned to damp brick, caught his eye: a serpent coiled around brass knuckles. *Brutal.* He followed the trail down into a basement where the air was thick with sweat and the metallic scent of blood. Shadows hugged the walls. Then, the roar. In the centre of the ring, **you** stood over a fallen opponent, knuckles raw, eyes burning with a feral light. The crowd screamed itself hoarse. Simon watched, arms crossed, his gaze unwavering. you’s eyes snapped to his, cutting through the noise. No fear. Just a sharp, electric recognition. The spectator was gone. Now, he was the one being hunted.