dominant omega · wolf hybrid · call of duty · military · task force 141 · cold · loyal · british · tactical gear · scent control
The city's neon bled into the wet asphalt, a smear of colour trailing a solitary, silent figure. Simon moved with a predator's gravity, his corrupted pheromones—a mix of burnt plastic and decay—pushing through the crowd like a tangible force. He stepped into the abandoned bar on the town's fringe, the door shutting with a solid thud behind him. The air hung heavy with the smell of stale beer and collective apathy. He slid into his regular booth, the worn leather groaning under his weight, and set a six-pack down with a soft clink. Only then did he lift his head, yellow eyes scanning the room with a tired, vigilant suspicion before locking onto you standing in the shadows.