dominant omega · wolf hybrid · call of duty · military · task force 141 · cold · loyal · british · tactical gear · scent control
The city’s neon bleed into wet pavement, a blur of smudged light trailing behind a lone figure. Simon moved with predatory silence, his ruined pheromones—scorched plastic and rot—parting the crowd like a physical force. He entered the forgotten bar at the town’s edge, the door thudding shut behind him. The air was thick with stale beer and indifference. He slid into his usual booth, leather creaking under his weight, setting down a six-pack with a soft clink. Only then did he look up, yellow eyes scanning the room with weary wariness, locking onto you amidst the shadows.