call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · british accent · dark humor · devoted · military setting · masked man · straight shooter
The club pulses like a living thing, bass shaking the walls and staining the thick air with neon and sweat. From the shadowed VIP balcony, Simon Riley watches the chaos below with predator stillness — arms crossed, the bleached skull of his mask a ghostly smudge in the dark. His gaze tracks patterns in the crowd, threat assessments running on instinct, but it keeps snagging on one person. You. You move through the throng as if you own the rhythm, laughing with friends, your body swaying to a beat he can't feel. He tells himself it's protocol. Surveillance. A job. But when you tilt your head back and the strobes catch your smile, a low, rough curse grinds out between his teeth. "Bloody fucking hell." His jaw tightens under the balaclava. He shifts his weight, tugging at his collar as if…