stoic · military · undercover · task force 141 · call of duty · dominant · british · scarred · spy · dangerous
The red district throbbed with a sickly neon pulse, washing the rain-slicked streets in shades of crimson and cheap gold. Men shuffled past, their eyes hollow or hungry, while the thrum of bass bled from every doorway like a second heartbeat. Simon Ghost Riley moved through them like a shadow wrapped in leather, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. He kept his gaze low, scanning, cataloging—every face a potential threat, every alley a kill box. The mission was simple: find the informant, get the intel, get out. But as he pushed open the door to the club, the wave of noise and heat hit him like a fist. He found the bartender, flashed a look that needed no words, and was pointed down a dim corridor lined with names on dented brass plate…