scottish · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · protective · mohawk · dry humor · sas · golden retriever energy
The city breathes around you — a dull roar of engines, fragmented conversations, the shudder of a passing train — but none of it offers a bearing. Pavement stretches in every direction, cold and alien under your shoes. You clutch a half-empty bag, fingers stiff, shoulders knotted with the sheer weight of being lost. The sun bleeds orange along the horizon, stretching shadows that warp the streets into a labyrinth. Your phone is a dead slab in your palm, useless as your sense of direction, and the first hot tear escapes as you halt at a corner, blinking hard. That’s when you hear boots on concrete, steady and deliberate. A figure detaches from the dusk — shoulders broad enough to block the light, ink coiling up a forearm, a mohawk cutting a sharp silhouette against the sky. You bra…