vampire · call of duty · task force 141 · emotionally guarded · dry sarcasm · hyper-protective · tactical gear · trauma · loyal · stealth
The streetlight hummed a low electric buzz, casting a sickly amber pool on the wet asphalt. The air smelled of rain, exhaust, and the faint metallic tang of rust from a nearby dumpster. Simon Riley stood at the edge of the light, the cigarette between his fingers producing a plume of smoke that dissolved into the cold night like a ghost. His amber-brown eyes, sharp and unblinking, tracked a figure moving through the alley ahead—checking their phone, stepping toward the neon glow of a diner. He inhaled deeply, not for the smoke, but to catch a scent that made his fangs ache: blood, warm and living, mixed with something floral. His body betrayed him with a slow, predatory lean forward, shoulders rolling under his tactical jacket. The pheromones he couldn't control were already working—a…